by J Glen Percy
“Cecily is in Shorefeld....” Erick trailed off, a semblance of soberness returning to his eyes.
There were more questions than answers in Allis’ tale of Willa’s eldest daughter, but he had answered the most troubling question of all. If Gabryel was with Cecily, then Mykel was in Whitehaven. It was Mykel Starling that yet lived, that carried the secret she carried. It was Mykel Starling who must needs join his brother. Curse the mule-headed horseman for not speaking sooner!
“I should return to Shorefeld,” Willa followed quickly. “I will find Cecily and return her home.”
“And risk your capture too? We have three daughters at home who have been far too long without the most basic of necessities in these times,” Erick said.
“A guard? Surely the red-cloaks are looking after their safety.”
“A parent,” Erick responded. He turned to Allis, each word more resolute than the last. “See that my wife makes it safely to the citadel poet, where you will be compensated for your service. I suggest you use the coin to purchase some civility, and if enough is left over, a shield. Once I have collected Ceres’ body, and Cecily’s, whatever shape it may be in, the Rose will teach the Stallion the price of betrayal. Ryecard, my brother, we are one no longer. Call in the banners, spare whatever men possible from the watchtowers and the banks of the Ash. Before the Grays sweep across our landscape like a scourge of locust, we ride on the West!”
* * *
As Willa followed the coarse tracker south from Timber Run later that night, she reflected on her husband’s impassioned words. War. Cairanthem was born amidst the grisly, all-encompassing event, now it would either live or die by it. As conflicted as her feelings were, she could not deny that the future of the civilized world rested squarely in her husband’s hands. Whether he hated them or not, the Five grant him strength and wisdom for the long road ahead.
Each person present in the dank tavern took the king’s decision differently, though it was Ozias Stellen Fellsword’s reaction that intrigued Queen Willa most of all. Her knowledge of men had her seeing something that the tracker and her well-stewed husband did not. Behind Ozias’ perceptive eyes had been an unmissable glimmer, like a wolf watching a sick, feeble ewe stray from the flock. A glimmer that spoke of hunger and opportunity. A chill tickled Willa’s spine. What was happening to the world? Then, for the first time since learning the news, the tears arrived. Tears for her dead firstborn and tears for her last unborn.
EPILOGUE
“He had a kind heart,” Fennel said sadly, the aged advisor adjusting his robes against the breeze rolling up Shorefeld’s cliffs. “As kind and innocent as Lore was swift, my lord steward.... Correction, I believe tis Lord Steward Fellsword now.”
“Kinder than any boy with Starlings for siblings has a right to be,” Ryecard agreed, ignoring the advisor’s subsequent prattle.
Ryecard and Fennel stood at the edge of the large balcony overlooking the sea and the pastel horizon beyond. More silence passed between the two than words. “I suppose we’ll be dropping the steward from your title,” Fennel continued. “Perhaps King Fellsword of the West is more appropriate. King Fellsword of New Braemar.”
Ryecard turned and leaned against the timber railing. There within the doors of the main hall sat the Meadow Summit throne. If Ryecard adopted the ridiculous title his longtime advisor was proposing, the seat would be his. He didn’t want the chair, nor did he want the sword resting uselessly across its arms. The sword that had killed his son. The sword that had killed his steed.
Between Ryecard and the long unused throne sat his wife in an old rocking chair he had crafted as a birthing gift. Meryam had comforted each of their four babes there, the chair tipping happily back and forth. This morning, the chair took on the mood of its occupant once more; hopeless, grief-stricken, motionless. It was her deceitful actions that had Fennel decorating his title with grandeur, forging alliances with snakes while Ryecard was away in the capital.
“Tell me you did not pursue the Old Badger in the South,” he said directly.
Eyes red with anguish, she did not lift them from the lacquered decking. “Only the Fairfields and the Redmonds,” Meryam replied.
“What conditions did you set?” Knowing Gerrit Fairfield and Ahmet Redmond, the answer scared Ryecard nearly as much as his wife’s sneaking did. She said nothing, though her eyes grew dire. It was no small deal she had made. “Our son was pardoned and you sentenced us to war regardless.”
“It was not I that struck down the prince,” she reminded. “We are in this together.”
“Yes, we are in this together. But a space divides us as surely as the River Ash divides the Drab from fertile lands. How could you dishonor me?”
“Dishonor? I have brought you a gift. Would you have us go to war without friends?”
“It takes a few clouds to make a pretty sunrise, my king Fellsword,” Fennel added before Ryecard could lash out. Ryecard spun in frustration back towards the ocean. Oranges and pinks bounced between sky and sea as the sun peaked over the far-off line dividing one from the other.
“And too many blot out the sun completely,” came his dry reply.
Ryecard stewed in his head. Two sons dead, two daughters on their way. Wyn and Breccyn’s peculiar behavior. Erick’s reaction. The Ferals. The Grayskins. All Ryecard could see was clouds. Most troubling of all at the moment, what had his wife promised the nobles in exchange for their allegiance? Neither man’s loyalty would come cheaply. Especially to a new crown that was not sitting on their own head. What had Meryam promised?
* * *
If information was money, Gerrit Fairfield was the richest man in Western Province by a sizeable margin. Yet like most misers, it was the tads of information he lacked, the half-full purse, that drove his obsession. What had the queen wanted with the Starling twin that had traveled to Whitehaven? Lord Fairfield knew it to be Mykel, of course, and had even considered telling Queen Willa. There was no harm in sharing some information.... But then he had seen the hunger in Willa Romerian’s eyes and knew that whatever he revealed would in some way betray his newly formed agreement with the Lady Meryam.
Regrettably, someone had betrayed the Starlings. Breccyn and the other twin Gabryel rode into town that night hoping to keep their passage secret. Gerrit never spoke of it to Prince Ceres, but someone had. Who was another missing coin that he had yet to lay hands on.
“Why did you call me here, father?” Lord Fairfield’s daughter sat across the small table in the Gambling Jester, clearly wanting to be somewhere else. Gerrit Fairfield had been a prince for much of his life – until the First King pushed Unity onto the realm - and now in his mid-sixties could number his estate’s coin faster than he could his countless children. What else did princes do? Leeah was his oldest daughter to his second wife, making her the third oldest girl, and fifth oldest Fairfield child. Of most significance at the moment, her two older sisters were already married, making her the oldest unmarried woman in the family.
“What would you say to an arranged marriage to the prince?” he asked, jumping to the point. The queen’s hunger for the Starling boy yet lingered in his mind.
Leeah laughed. “I am sure Ceres Romerian is kinder dead than alive, but I doubt a corpse would make the best husband. Please tell me you did not call me here for another one of your pointless-”
“Not Ceres,” Gerrit interrupted. “Events are transpiring that will see a new monarchy rise in the West, and a new prince along with it.”
Leeah’s expression transformed from wholly doubtful to perfectly intrigued. “Who is the lucky man, and how have you come by this arrangement?” Leeah asked.
“Who is a morsel I cannot share at the moment. What I can say is that his mother has promised his marriage vows in exchange for our family’s support. What do you say, Your Grace? Shorefeld has been without prince or princess for far too long.”
* * *
The Old Badger sat atop his mount overlooking an enormous, man-carved pit in
the earth. Any number of towns here in the South could fit within its gaping jaws without rising up its terraced slopes, let alone spilling out into the surrounding forests. It had been a productive stone quarry once, cities ranging from Somerset to Mar Lanton, north to the capital, built wholly upon its yield. Now its function was very different, though the resource it produced was more valuable to Lord Steward Orthander Stellen than an entire mountain of limestone.
From this height, the men below were ants, scurrying here and there in various formations. Their specific activities were of no concern – that’s what generals were for – but their sheer numbers had Lord Orthander’s wrinkles creasing further with glee. The North was the only province allowed a local militia under Unity, one not provided and guided by Rosemount. Heavy cavalry practicing in one corner of the quarry, archer formations in another, thousands of infantry in yet another, men shouting, blacksmith hammers ringing; this was no militia. And this was only one of nearly a dozen hidden training grounds exactly like it.
Yes, everything was going to plan. Dividing the Starlings and the Romerians had been the Old Badger’s first play, and irrefutably his most difficult one. Two dead sons and the king’s shifted focus had Orthander celebrating success. Of course, it had taken the loss of his own Fellsword son to accomplish such. He had spent so long feigning animosity and disaffection towards Ozias that he feared it would stick once the Stellens occupied the Throne of Thorns. The mending of imaginary wounds would be very real between father and son, but that was a trouble for another day. The family needed to remain focused through the oncoming war.
Upon Lord Starling’s refusal to send horses for Erick’s wall, ships would be sent with the stone instead. In fact, Orthander had already dispatched a sizeable fleet in that direction. When they arrived on the western banks of the Ash, their cargo would be gray and hard as stone, but not the quarried rock Erick Romerian was expecting. Thousands of Grayskins would pile onto Cairanthem’s soil for the first time in a thousand years, Orthander’s brother Ogden at their head.
The Old Badger took one last approving look at his secret army. If his brother was doing his job – and every hawk Orthander had received indicated as much – the savages would do the killing and dying. His men would merely enforce the new order within Rosemount and across the realm. Cairan Romerian had stared Orthander in the eyes as he removed the young badger’s crown, forbid the use of his throne, and tarnished his bloodline. What he wouldn’t give for the First King to watch him march through the fountain-lined streets of the capital. Even so, the king’s astonishment when his trusted Lord Captain Fellsword betrayed him would stir the bones of every Romerian beneath the ground and above.
* * *
“The ships could arrive any hour, Forerunner. Your men must needs prepare.” Having ordered many battles for his brother-king prior to Unity, and many more against raiding Grayskins, bands of brigands, and the ills of World’s Wall subsequent to, Ogden Stellen knew war well. He was not familiar with women in his ranks, but that was not what bothered him. Not entirely. The assembled Grayskin horde was lazily strung for miles and miles up and down the Ash’s eastern shore looking more like wilderness idlers than an invasion force.
“We conserve energy through the day’s heat,” Rav’k replied simply. “Your boats will not leave without Manalla’s Children and your homeland will yet be fertile whether we arrive this day or this day a year from now. You do not give orders, whiteface. No one who uses another’s legs as their own gives orders here.”
Though Ogden’s presence had mostly been accepted by the Grays, his use of a horse had not. Children giggled and pointed, men and women turned away in disgust. He doubted murder without cause would merit so much disapproval and shame. Beasts were nourishment, not labor, as they saw it. One more wasteful habit to purge from the lands they conquered. Ogden was anxious for the Gray horde to witness a thousand head of armored horse bearing down on them. They would learn in blood how useful horses could be off of the roasting spit.
“The fertility of the ground will not be affected,” Ogden agreed, “but the readiness of the enemy will be.”
Ogden had seen Grayskin elders similar in years to himself running the desert sand with youth a quarter their age. As a people they were neither lazy nor inept, making the fact that they lolled about like sunning dune lizards all the more unbearable. Perhaps if they utilized beasts in their labors they could spend less time conserving energy and more time avoiding waste such as this!
“We will not assault while my daughter remains in enemy hands. A small band has passed over Terra’s Vein and will have Ar’ravn back within two moon cycles.”
Months! Ogden’s jaws locked to prevent them from falling apart. Erick would have months to deal with the manufactured troubles in Shorefeld before the Grays stepped foot in Cairanthem! “I am sure your returned daughter will bring you peace, if not of war then of mind,” Ogden said politely instead of giving voice to his outrage.
“It will,” the shirtless Forerunner replied gravely. “Then she will spend our great return grooming your harnessed animal. I will find her a beast of her own, and like you and your colorless brethren, her legs will grow weak, her organs dwindle while she watches her people gift her the land she shall one day nurture. This will be her punishment.”
Ogden’s jaw held firm, but only just. A war delayed, lives expended in rescue, all for a girl who would surely take her own life before suffering that kind of shame. If this was not waste, Ogden would never understand the heathen concept. His fingers went to the badger broach at his collar, his mind going to his far-off family. It was too late to change plans now. If Forerunner Rav’k and his gathered clans did not play their role, this shaky alliance could quite conceivably lay waste to Ogden’s entire bloodline.
* * *
There was nothing rosy about the bowels of Rosemount. Like all bowels, they were damp, dark, and reeked of dung. But whereas intestines were meant to process and expel waste, the buried dungeons were purposed specifically to retain the vilest excrement the capital had to offer.
Standing just so, Tobiah Jago could see up a narrow circular shaft to where carts and people passed over its steel-grated outlet. It was daytime up there. Here, fifty paces below through solid earth and rock, it was perpetually night. The blackest of nights. Tobiah did not linger long. As the prison’s architects had intended, the holes channeled far more horse piss and pinch - and literal human excrement - than light or fresh air.
Tobiah’s own self-centered disgust said he deserved to be dumped on by the lowest denizen traveling the capital’s cobbled streets. He was a master spinner of plots and deceit, and here he was snared in a badger’s web. How had he not seen Ozias Stellen’s treachery? He knew the answer and was all the more disgusted for it. The nose on your own face was the one most often overlooked.
Before Tobiah pulled away from the penetrating beam – and the putrid shower it promised - a small bird fluttered and landed on the grate far above. A sparrow or a finch, perhaps. Tobiah watched the creature enviously.
The Stellen’s were not the only plotters of course. Even the self-righteous Starlings were spinning webs faster than a dozen shade widows at dusk. But where the ancient advisor had argued for Breccyn Starling’s execution, now it was reuniting the Romerians and Starlings that yielded the realm its best chance at survival. But how to pull the strings from his new quarters?
The sparrow’s shrill chirp echoed down the shaft, and Tobiah closed his eyes. Hawks, pigeons, and doves could all be trained to carry messages, hawks being the safest and swiftest method of course. Sparrows on the other hand were worthless, flittering around like a leaf on the wind. Tobiah was known kingdom-wide as the eyes and ears of the throne, yet nobody could uncover his network. Eyes shuttered, he focused wholly on the ancient priesthood residing within his core. A power he had concealed as the old gods fell out of favor. A power his dear friend had ordered wiped off the earth. The First King had nearly succeeded. Nearly....
&n
bsp; Tobiah’s mind entered the bird’s. A sparrow’s vision wasn’t as sharp or discerning as a man’s but anything was better than the shackling blindness of his cell. The bird cocked its head this way and that, feeding its surroundings to the old man buried far below. One cautious hop, and Tobiah took to the wing, darting through the capital in search of his next web to spin.
* * *
“If my father knew his oldest son would be the destruction of his legacy, he would have handed the crown to one of my siblings. Likely he’d have spit in death’s hand when the time came and replied no thanks.” There was not enough drink in the entire realm to dull King Erick Romerian’s misery. That did not stop him from taking another long gulp.
“Your father’s enemies always stood in front of him, Your Grace,” Ozias Stellen said sympathetically from across the stump. The man was as rigid as ever in his black and red, though he was sitting now. Erick was thinking the days they had tarried here had finally worn the man down. “Yours have stood behind you with a smile, slipping daggers beneath your armor.”
“Daggers?” the king asked, emphasizing the explicit plurality of the word.
“It was as Lord Starling suspected, Tobiah Jago is a traitor as well. He is in the dungeons awaiting your judgement.”
Erick could do nothing but laugh. A tired, exasperated laugh. “One traitor pointing out another. Let them both rot,” he said.
“Do you not want the proof, Your Grace?”
“Proof? The ruins of Unity surround us, threatening to engulf our young, fragile kingdom. What more proof do I need? All of my work, all of my father’s work, ruined by the two men that aided most in its creation.” For the first time since planting himself at the table in Timber Run, Erick pushed away the full mug in front of him.
“There is still much good,” Ozias spoke,
“Bah. The bloom begins to wither the moment it is clipped from the stalk, the vase-held petals nothing but a fleeting lie. Cairanthem’s bloom is over.”