by DAVID B. COE
It had not been an enjoyable journey for Xaver. They skirted the coast of the Strait of Wantrae, which afforded them some fine views of Wantrae Island and, far in the distance, the shores of Braedon. But there was little else to see, save the Heneagh River, and once they crossed that and entered Kentigern Wood, there was even less to look at.
Tavis was uncharacteristically quiet throughout their travels, although he insisted on riding with Xaver nearly the entire way. Fotir and the duke usually rode ahead of them, talking quietly about one thing or another and offering Xaver little relief from his boredom.
The nights were no better. After eating their evening meal, Tavis would sneak off with a wineskin, leaving Xaver alone with the duke and his minister. Perhaps the young lord thought that he was being discreet, or maybe he didn’t care. But Xaver hadn’t failed to notice the dark expression Javan always wore as he watched his son skulk off into the night. After the second night, Xaver considered saying something to Tavis. He soon thought better of it, however. Too often he had found himself trapped between the duke and his friend. He wouldn’t put himself there again, not after all that had happened.
His anger at the duke’s son had ebbed, but he could not say that it was gone entirely, nor could he be certain that it ever would be. Every day since their conversation in his chamber, Xaver had railed at himself for refusing Tavis’s offer of release from his oath. There was little else he could have done. He knew that. Yet, he punished himself anyway.
“What if I hate her?” Tavis asked suddenly.
They were riding side by side in the dense shadows of Kentigern Wood, their horses walking at a steady pace. The forest offered some relief from the heat of the day, but Tavis’s face was damp with sweat, as was his own.
“Who?”
“Brienne, of course. What if I meet her and decide that I can’t love her?”
“It’s a good marriage, Tavis.”
“That’s not—”
Xaver stopped him with a shake of his head. “Loving her is beside the point.” He couldn’t help but smile. “You’d hardly be the first duke or king in Eibithar’s history to take a mistress as compensation for a loveless marriage.”
He spoke in a low voice, but apparently his words carried on the wooded path, for a moment later the duke glanced back at them from atop his mount, a wry grin on his bearded face.
“You’ve a wise friend there, Tavis,” he said. “You’d do well to keep him by your side.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Xaver said, acknowledging the compliment with a nod.
Javan and Fotir slowed their mounts for a moment allowing Xaver and Tavis to pull abreast of them. The Qirsi nodded to the two boys, but said nothing.
“So you’re worried about meeting Brienne?” the duke asked his son, as the four of them began to ride together.
“Not really worried—”
“It’s all right,” Javan said. “I was so afraid of meeting your mother that I couldn’t keep down the food I ate at the feast. Her mother was so offended that she nearly called off the joining ceremony.”
Tavis gave a wan smile. “I’m sure Brienne will make a fine wife, Father.”
“I expect so, as long as she’s not too much like her father. Or her mother for that matter.” Javan and Fotir shared a grin. “The point is, Xaver’s right. We need Kentigern right now. This marriage strengthens our house, and so strengthens the kingdom. Brienne will be a good queen. If you’re lucky, she’ll be a good wife as well. If not, you’ll find someone else to warm your bed, just as others in your position have.” Quite abruptly, the duke’s face reddened. “That’s not to say that I have. Your mother has been my love as well as my duchess.”
Tavis suppressed a smile. “Of course, Father.”
“It’s the truth!”
“Best to move on, my lord,” Fotir said, smirking and giving Xaver a quick wink.
Javan cleared his throat. “I quite agree.” He looked over at Xaver. “Have you ever been to Kentigern, Master MarCullet?”
“No, my lord.”
“Well then, you’ve got something to look forward to. No one is more fond of Curgh Castle than I, or more admiring of those who built it. Over the centuries the House of Curgh has withstood sieges that would have brought other houses to their knees. But that said, I’ve seen few castles as impressive as Kentigern and few cities as well fortified.”
“My father has told me much the same thing, my lord.”
“Don’t expect it to be as spacious as Curgh, or as elegant. In many ways it’s more a fortress than a castle. As close as it is to the Tarbin it has to be. But as Eibithar’s first defense against the Aneirans for the last thousand years, it has rarely failed us.”
A thousand years. The castle was older than the kingdom itself, as was the enmity between Eibithar and her neighbor to the south. Legend told that the wars over control of the Tarbin dated back to the days of Binthar and the ancient clan wars, when the only thing uniting the warring tribes of the north was their shared hatred of the southern clans.
“Has Kentigern ever fallen?” Tavis asked.
“Once, in Durril’s War. The Aneirans managed to hold it for a time, and the castle’s strength worked against Eibithar’s army. But Grig, Kentigern’s duke at the time, knew the fortress better than the Aneirans. One night, after Durril sent the bulk of his army northward to win Curgh and Heneagh as well, Grig managed to sneak a small force in through one of the sally ports. They took back the castle and Grig killed Durril.” Javan frowned, looking at his son and then at Xaver. “You both should know all of this. I’ve paid your tutors enough silver and gold over the years to pave the streets of Curgh.”
“We know of the war, Father. But the tutors leave the study of military matters to Hagan, and he’s more concerned with teaching us sword craft. He says the other can wait until we’re skilled enough to defend ourselves.”
Javan glanced at Xaver, who shrugged.
“It’s true,” he said. “Father has never had much use for history, even when it pertains to waging war.”
His frown deepening, the duke shook his head. “I’ll have to discuss this with him when we return.” He looked over at Fotir. “Make a note of it.”
The Qirsi nodded, pulling from his riding cloak a small scroll and a writing quill.
“You were telling us of Durril’s War, Father,” Tavis prompted.
“There’s little else to tell. After Durril’s death, the Aneiran army was thrown into disarray. The king’s forces had little trouble driving them back across the Tarbin.”
“And that was the only time Kentigern fell?” Xaver asked.
“As far as I know. It withstood Aneiran sieges during the Bastard’s War and the Harvest War, and it also fought off sieges by other Eibitharian houses during the First Civil War and the Thorald-Curgh Alliance.”
Tavis’s eyes widened. “Did we lay siege to Kentigern?”
“Skeris the Third did, yes, but that was more than three hundred years ago.”
“And we couldn’t take the castle?”
Javan shook his head. “No, we couldn’t. To be honest, I wouldn’t want to try it now either, even with Aindreas leading them.” He glanced at Xaver. “Don’t tell your father I said so.”
All of them laughed. A moment later Tavis asked his father something else about one of the civil wars, and for a long time the four of them rode together, the duke giving Xaver and Tavis a lengthy lesson in Eibitharian history. For the first time since leaving Curgh, Xaver actually was glad to be traveling with the duke and his son, and much as he looked forward to arriving at Kentigern, he savored this last leg of their journey.
They emerged from Kentigern Wood just as the sun began to descend toward the the Strait of Wantrae. The air was hot and heavy and dark thunderclouds gathered to the east, above Harrier Fen. Before them, perched like a great eagle atop the craggy, white mass of Kentigern Tor, stood the castle.
It was simply designed. As Javan had said, there was little elegance
here. Like most fortress castles, including Audun’s Castle in the City of Kings, Kentigern consisted of an outer wall and a taller inner keep, both of them regular in shape and constructed of ponderous grey stone. Every wall of the fortress bristled with towers, some of them broader than others, but all of them lofty, no doubt affording the soldiers stationed on their ramparts clear views of the Tarbin, and the lands that lay beyond. Above the towers banners rose and fell lazily in the hot wind. Most bore the crest of Kentigern, a silver lynx standing upon a white mountain, framed by a bright blue background. But above the two towers that stood on either side of the nearest castle gate flew the purple and gold of the Kingdom of Eibithar and the brown and gold crest of Curgh.
Even at that moment, bathed as it was in the golden light of late day, Kentigern Castle could not be called beautiful, not as Galdasten was said to be, or Rennach. Rather, the castle looked as formidable and unassailable as the mountain on which it sat. It appeared as ancient as the stones that composed its walls, as though it had been there since Elined first laid her hand upon the Forelands. And it seemed to Xaver that the Goddess herself would never find the strength to topple it. Staring up at its towers and walls, he wondered how anyone could ever think to attack it. Which, perhaps, was what those who had built it had in mind.
On the slope of the tor and the broad plain stretching from its base, the small houses and markets of Kentigern City seemed to kneel before the castle, like the priests and priestesses of Ean offering obeisance in the cloisters. These smaller buildings were surrounded by an imposing wall that ran all the way up the tor to the castle. Towers rose from it at regular intervals, and Xaver could see at least two fortified gates from the edge of the wood. He could also see the spires of a sanctuary rising above the wall from the southeastern corner of the city. Xaver could not recall seeing any sanctuary with such tall towers, and he wondered which of the four gods the people of Kentigern honored.
“You’re looking at the sanctuary?” Fotir asked him in a low voice.
Surprised, Xaver turned to face him. “Yes, actually I was. Do you know which of the gods they worship there?”
“Such grand spires,” the Qirsi said, his yellow eyes still fixed on the sanctuary. “The people of Kentigern must love their god very much. Or perhaps fear him.”
Xaver said nothing, waiting for Fotir to answer his question. But already he knew what the first minister would say.
“It’s Bian’s Sanctuary. They worship the Deceiver.” He looked at Xaver and smiled in a way that made the young man shudder. “Don’t look so aghast, Master MarCullet. The people of Kentigern live under constant threat of attack. While some of Eibithar’s houses have gone centuries without fighting a battle, Kentigern has fought dozens of skirmishes with the Aneirans over the past five hundred years. Is it any wonder that they devote themselves to the god of the Underrealm?”
“We’ve still more than half a league to go,” Javan called to them before Xaver could answer. “I’d like to make the nearest gate before the prior’s bells.”
The duke spurred his mount forward without waiting for a response and the rest of the company followed. But Xaver could not stop thinking about what Fotir had said. He was right, of course. It made perfect sense, though he could not imagine what it would be like to worship the god of death. He was called the Deceiver, because it was said that he seduced Elined, goddess of the earth, by taking the guise of Amon, her mate, and so begot the dark sisters: Orlagh, goddess of war, Zillah, goddess of famine, and Murnia, goddess of the pestilence. The mere sight of Bian’s Sanctuary forced Xaver to consider once more the fears his father had expressed to Javan before their departure. The duke had dismissed them with a joke and a smile, and Xaver had forgotten them almost as soon as they rode out of Curgh. But he realized now that they were riding straight toward the Tarbin. If war broke out with Aneira, which was always a possibility regardless of the time of year, they would fight the first battle. Xaver did not slow his mount, but he found that he was suddenly aware of the dagger he wore on his belt and, almost without thinking, he reached back to make certain his sword, wrapped in its oilcloth, was still strapped to his saddle.
The road to the city and castle wound gently past open fields and scattered farms. At one point they passed a small boy standing by the road with a large herd of sheep. He stared openmouthed at the company as it rode past, before turning and running back to his small house, screaming to his mother that the castle was under attack.
When they had covered roughly half the distance remaining to the castle, Javan had them stop so that he could summon two of his guards to the front of the company. He positioned the two men on either side of him and had them unfurl the colors of Eibithar and a banner bearing the crest of Curgh.
“Tavis will ride with these men and me the rest of the way,” the duke said, looking back at Fotir. “You and Xaver will ride behind us, followed by the rest of the guard and then the servants.”
“Yes, my lord,” the Qirsi said. “I’ll see to it immediately.” He wheeled his mount and started riding back through the company, shouting commands.
Javan turned to Tavis and then Xaver. “Say nothing unless you’re addressed directly. Keep your bearing dignified, but remember to smile. We’re guests here. Everything we do reflects upon the House of Curgh.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Of course, my lord.”
They spoke at the same time, then glanced at each other and shared a grin. Xaver’s pulse had quickened and he realized that he was far more excited about reaching Kentigern than he had imagined he would be. Given the expression on Tavis’s face, it appeared that the young lord felt the same way.
Fotir rejoined them a short time later.
“All is ready, my lord,” he said.
“Good. Let’s ride.”
Once more the company resumed its advance on the castle. Xaver could see the gate clearly now, as well as the guards standing on either side of it. As they drew nearer, two men joined these guards, both of them carrying golden horns that shone in the sun. Raising the horns to their lips, the men played “The Deeds of Binthar,” Eibithar’s war anthem, the notes ringing out across the open plain like the meeting of sword blades. Ending that, they moved right into “Roldan’s Fleet,” a ballad honoring Roldan the Second of the House of Curgh, who led Eibithar to a naval victory over Wethyrn in the early days of the kingdom. All the while as the men played, Xaver and the company of riders from Curgh continued their approach to the city gate. Just as they slowed their mounts, covering the last stretch of road to the city, the musicians ended this second piece and began another. Xaver did not know what this one was called, though he knew that it honored Grig, the hero from Kentigern of whom the duke had spoken earlier in the day. And as the first notes of this ballad soared into the warm air, the timing of it all so perfect that Xaver could not help but be moved, Aindreas, duke of Kentigern, rode out through the gate to meet his guests.
Xaver had never seen the duke before, though he had heard tales of him for years. The Tor Atop the Tor, they called him, and Xaver could see why. He was enormous, a mountain of a man, both tall and wide of girth. His hair and beard were the color of rusted iron, unmarked by grey or white, though he was said to be at least as old as Javan. His pale grey eyes were almost a perfect match for the color of Kentigern Castle, and his skin was ruddy, as if he had been standing for hours in a cold wind. He had an overlarge nose and his eyes were set a bit too close together, but his was a kind face nonetheless.
Behind him, riding as well, came an attractive woman who was as slight and delicate as Aindreas was large. Her hair was golden and long, her eyes deep brown. This had to be Ioanna, Kentigern’s duchess. Xaver glanced quickly at Tavis, who was staring at the woman as well. If Brienne looked at all like her mother, the young lord was a lucky man indeed.
There was a Qirsi man with the duke, and a legion of soldiers resplendent in silver and blue. Kentigern and Curgh might have been rivals in the past, but it seem
ed to Xaver that Aindreas had spared no effort in honoring Javan and his company.
The duke of Kentigern sat motionless on his great black mount, regarding his guests coolly as the music played. When the horns fell silent, he raised a gloved hand in greeting.
“Be welcome to Kentigern, my Lord Curgh,” he said. “We are most pleased to have you as our guest.”
“My Lord Kentigern,” Javan answered, “we thank you for this most splendid reception. You honor us with your deeds and kind words.”
The two men swung themselves off their horses and, stepping forward, embraced each other like brothers as cheers went up from both companies.
Javan turned to face the riders from Curgh and made a small gesture that Xaver did not understand. An instant later, however, Tavis and Fotir dismounted, and he realized that the duke expected him to do the same.
“Aindreas, duke of Kentigern,” Javan said, “please allow me to introduce my son, Lord Tavis of Curgh.”
Tavis took a step forward and bowed. “My Lord Kentigern,” he said. “This is a great honor.”
“It’s good to see you, Lord Tavis. The last time we met you were but a boy. I hear you’ve some skill with a blade, now.”
“A bit, my lord.”
“Perhaps you’ll show us what you’ve learned from old Hagan at our tournament two days hence.”
Tavis grinned. “It would be my pleasure, my lord.”
Javan nodded approvingly before indicating Fotir, with an open hand. “Perhaps you remember my first minister, Fotir jal Salene.”
“Lord Kentigern,” Fotir said, bowing in turn.
Aindreas offered a thin smile and a nod, but he said nothing.
“And this is Xaver MarCullet,” Javan said, “liege man to my son.”
“Hagan’s boy!” the duke of Kentigern said, looking him over with a critical eye.
Xaver bowed, knowing as he did that he was not doing so with as much grace as Fotir, or even Tavis. “My Lord Kentigern.”