“Not your older brothers?”
“Raymond and Edmond were always more concerned with politics than anything else. Raymond especially, since he was the eldest and would inherit father’s lord ministership. That’s why when Bredahade Academy ran me out, I came here.”
“I’m still surprised this castle has belonged to Candlestone all this time…”
“Marlan, I’m not finished with my grandfather’s writings yet, but he suggests there is more to this place than we currently realize. Secret places underground. But Erwold could never find them. I know the students need guidance in their studies, but I need more time to piece together those secrets.”
“I’ll do my best,” Marlan said.
“I know you will. Take them to see the observatory at the top of Thorendor’s pyramid as well. That should be eye-opening for them.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer to show them the far-seer yourself?” Marlan asked.
“You’ve been reading too much Naren-Dra. You may call it a telescope. Take them up there so they can—”
“Master Arasemis!” It was Juhl, sprinting into the library. “A messenger brought this to the gate. Yorand received it and gave it to me.” She handed a letter sealed with green wax to Arasemis.
Arasemis pulled the twine from the letter and glanced at Marlan. “Perhaps Garion’s task is complete…”
“I’m sure he did well,” Marlan said. They read the letter.
O,
The pupil you sent is dead. I’m no teacher, but I warned you he was arrogant and sloppy. Somehow Lord Arthan Valient discovered his mask and his orders. So far they have no reason to suspect me, and I’ve been able to destroy Garion’s little laboratory.
Regarding Arthan, I retract my earlier advice to let him be. He is much too aggressive and will threaten our work. He will be traveling home soon, but his stay in Delavon will be brief. The king asked him to lead the search for the ministers’ killers.
Take care not to kill him too near your precious castle or Bredahade. Wait until he has crossed into Delavon. Above all, do not allow him to return to Eglamour.
E
Arasemis crumpled the letter as Juhl cursed under her breath.
“Garion dead…” Marlan muttered. “And Morroy…Two lost within two months.”
“And this young Arthan could make things worse,” Arasemis said. “Marlan, you will lead the students, including the new recruits. Get them each a shirt of the gladed elinderum mail, forest cape, and Naren-Dra masks.”
“Do you think they’re ready?” Marlan asked. “Arthan will be well protected.”
“Kill Arthan and anyone else important traveling with him. He’ll likely be in a lord minister’s carriage with a large contingent of cavalry. Hunt them but don’t attack until they’ve crossed out of Wallevet. Get them on a narrow path or at camp so you can avoid the bulk of his knights. Arthan may already be in Wallevet by now. Make haste!”
57. ARTHAN
On the Road to Beldmerg, Delavon Ministry
Flowertide, 3034
Arthan rubbed his bandaged cheek but felt content as his convoy crossed from Wallevet into Delavon. He looked forward to seeing Rachard again. He hoped Medoff had lifted himself from the doldrums following Father’s death. And Arthan was eager to spend time with Meriam. Bardil was right about her, though he still had not figured out how to balance her with his growing duties.
As the evening shadows lengthened, his men found a place to camp. He knew that by midday tomorrow they’d be in Beldmerg. Then only three more days to Rachard, if he kept his men moving.
“This way, my lord,” Livonier said, pointing to the right side of the road. His tent was being erected on a flat green between bald hills and a small woods.
“Don’t have them bother with the tent,” Arthan said. “Sleeping under the sky of my lands will refresh me.”
“Rain is coming,” Livonier said, nodding toward the west.
“And lord ministers don’t sleep outside,” Bardil said with a smile.
“Very well…”
When the tent was up Arthan and Bardil took their meal inside. They sat comfortably around a brazier eating roasted heath hens while the rain poured outside.
“So how does it feel, Brother, to be a new lord and the right hand of the king?”
“Duke Brugarn remains the king’s right hand,” Arthan said. “I don’t covet his position. My burden as marshal, though an honor, is already enough.”
“Brugarn is more to blame for the kingdom’s ills than anyone,” Bardil said. “After seeing him in court, it’s clear he is a master usurper.”
“Erech still wears the crown. Not every king is great, but most have able counselors around them. Erech is both weak and surrounded by unworthy men. Bardil, I’ve been giving some thought to something…”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to accept Erech’s offer to wed Princess Milisend. You’d make a better king, Brother, with her hand to cement your claim—but Meriam’s face would haunt you.”
Arthan shook his head in frustration at the distraction. “Bardil, listen, this is important. I’m not talking about women. Remember the Rugens’ offer to keep in touch? I’ve thought a lot about this and talked several times with Serdot before we left.”
“Father talked with all his enemies,” Bardil said. “Keeping them close means you’ll know what they’re up to.”
“Right. But Serdot thinks the Rugens are looking for a Donovard lord to supplant Erech. I could let the Rugens think I’m the one to support rather than someone to tear down. But I’ll risk looking like a traitor to my own people if the relationship is revealed.”
“Why would you consider it, then? You’d be a good king in your own right, Brother. Without their support.”
“The king’s brothers will rule if Erech is overthrown or killed,” Arthan said. “And it would mean war with Rugenhav. But if I were king, I could prevent such a war, since I already have a channel open with the Rugens.”
“It sounds tricky. I’ve never met a Rugen I could trust.”
“You’re young, Bardil. How many Rugens have you met in Rachard?”
“None should have command over the Valients.”
“Father took up the task of keeping the Empire Alliance alive before he died, despite being called a traitor by some. He tried to prevent war by talking with all sides. My talking with them may be our only hope of preventing war. I’m compelled to try because I know that’s what Father would have done to preserve Donovan.”
“Is Erech’s kingdom worth the risk?” Bardil asked. “Even if the worst comes, we can defend Delavon.”
“The Rugens have the second-largest standing army in Pemonia, behind the Calbrians. And they can call up twice as many. Their fleets are second to none on the continent. And they have strong claims to Donovard lands where ethnic Rugens are a majority, like in Alpenon. And the Rugens are unified under their strong emperor.
“We, on the other hand, are floundering under a weak king. The royal treasury is empty and indebted. The standing army has been gutted, the discharged soldiers have turned to begging or banditry. Some ministry armies remain intact and paid, like ours, but the high nobles are adrift and being slaughtered one by one.”
“But Delavon is strong and far from the border,” Bardil said. “We could weather a Rugen attack.”
“The border that Rowan is currently at with Asteroth?”
Bardil looked down into the fire, ashamed.
“We would get Rowan home,” Arthan continued, “but Delavon cannot shelter all Donovards. Could we so easily stand by, safe in our lands, while the rest of the kingdom is conquered? And later, when it’s done and we’re surrounded by the new Rugenhav, would we face a negotiated subjugation? Would Delavon simply be another Austveeden, a small kingdom permitted to exist as a buffer between greater powers?”
“You paint a dark future for us.”
“It’s not written in stone, Bardil.
Men like Brugarn, Chaultion, Asteroth, and Erath want nothing more than to have their war with Rugenhav to demonstrate a strength we don’t have, all for lands and wealth and honor. But men like Father would find an alternative.”
Bardil nodded. “You speak the truth about Father. But he was his own man, and so are you. If after much thought you think getting cozy with the Rugens would be the best path, then take it. I’m young, I know, but I know one man cannot take the world on his shoulders. If everyone else wants war badly enough, how can you stop them merely by making yourself the Rugens’ favorite to support your bid for the crown?”
“It must be worth a try, otherwise Brugarn is certain to be king, and it will be war anyway,” Arthan said. “Delavon will always be my prime concern. But successful kings must think more broadly than their own house and home.”
A ripping sound caused them to look toward the canvas wall. There was a small tear, and another hole appeared on the opposite side.
“Was that an arrow?” Bardil asked as they jumped to their feet.
Another rip was followed by something ricocheting off the brazier. It fell on the rug before them, and Arthan picked it up.
“This barb is exactly like the hand arrows Garion used.”
“Our shadows,” Bardil gasped. “Quick, cover the brazier!”
Several more darts shot through the tent. The brothers dove to the rug.
“To arms!” Arthan shouted to his men.
Livonier burst into the tent, sword drawn, followed by Arthan’s personal guards, the big twins Cuern and Erboln.
“Someone is shooting at us, Livonier! Weaponry like Garion’s.”
Darts now poured into the tent, including from above.
“Take cover, they’re in the trees!” Livonier shouted. He and the guards rushed outside as Arthan and Bardil rolled under the travel bed. Bardil cried out and Arthan saw the blood trail.
“Shoulder,” Bardil muttered.
Arthan pushed a meal cloth into Bardil’s good hand and brought it up to his shoulder. “Hold tight!” Then he rolled out and lunged for his armor. He quickly pulled on his mail shirt and seated his helmet, then grabbed his sword. The commotion grew outside.
When Arthan exited the tent he saw several soldiers lying dead and injured. The attackers still eluded the rest.
“Livonier?”
“There, my lord,” said a wounded knight.
Arthan turned to see a squad of crossbowmen clustered around Livonier just inside the woods. They were shooting up into the trees, looking for the enemy. The mysterious darts had stopped.
“Send scouts up and down the road,” Arthan ordered. “Don’t let them escape.” Arthan walked toward the nearby woods, his eyes searching the dark trees backlit by the stars.
“My lord, it isn’t safe here,” Livonier said as he approached.
“I’m safer out here in armor than I was inside without it. What have you found?”
“Just a small bag of those hand arrows. Perhaps they’ve gone…”
At that moment men on the other side of the camp shouted. Livonier escorted Arthan back to his tent. “If they can’t see you, they can’t aim.”
Arthan opened his mouth to protest but no words came. A whirlwind of masked figures in green capes burst out from the bushes, cutting down every soldier too slow to react and granting a short but fatal parley to those who did.
It was difficult to number them. They sprinted between the tents and jumped the fires, ran up into the scattered trees and bounded off obstacles like squirrels. Cuern and Erboln stepped in front of Arthan as the darts came again.
Arthan ran between the two big knights, his heart pounding in his ears and skipping in his chest as he raced to confront his father’s killers. But it was difficult to focus on one mask as they moved. Arthan would sprint to where they were attacking but they’d be gone when he got there. He became frustrated, as did Livonier, whose orders made no difference.
Arthan rounded a tent and found a masked figure striking down a soldier. Arthan rushed the slim figure as the enemy’s sword became two. The woman cartwheeled toward them, wounding Erboln with a slash to his arm, then tripping Cuern with a kick to his knee. Arthan crossed swords with her but she soon disappeared in a glittering cloud that smelled of soot and wet stones.
The action had moved back to the other side of camp. By now Arthan’s men were organized into small groups that roved wherever the masked figures reappeared. When Livonier called out, Arthan saw a large masked man lying faceup in the grass. A Racharder pulled his spear from his rib cage.
Arthan knelt and ripped off the mask, exposing unseeing eyes set in a pale face. He was unarmed except for a simple knife.
“Looks foreign,” Livonier said.
“There are more of them,” Arthan said. “Find them!”
“To your tent, please. So that we can surround it and protect you.”
Arthan glanced at a few soldiers struggling to breathe in the grass.
“This enemy is using mysterious powder to choke our men,” Livonier said. “You must let me escort you to safety.”
Arthan followed his protector back to his tent, noting that the commotion had died down again. A guard rushed out of the tent when they arrived, his face pained. Arthan read his face and felt his stomach turn.
“Bardil!” he shouted.
“They came from there,” said another guard inside, gesturing to a gap cut into the rear of the tent. “We didn’t see them, but when we came in…”
Arthan fell to his knees beside Bardil and cradled his head. “Bardil, I have you…” His brother’s chest had been opened from his injured shoulder to his lower ribs. Blood oozed along with a sticky yellow liquid.
“A poisoned blade,” Livonier whispered.
“I have you…You’re going to make it…”
Arthan wept as Bardil’s shallow breathing ceased. He put his hand over Bardil’s eyes as they jerked back and forth randomly under the lids.
58. SERDOT
Eglamour Palace, Toulon Ministry
Bloomfade, 3034
Trying the key found on Garion in the doors of the lord ministers’ apartments had been tedious. The lords or their servants kept coming and going. Serdot knew he could invoke Arthan’s authority as Marshal of Inquiry and simply try the key as they watched. But he preferred to be discreet, trying the locks when he was certain none would see or hear him. If he found a match, Arthan would be the first to know, not one of Garion’s collaborators.
Today Serdot would try Lord Reimvick’s apartment. He knew Reimvick would be at court. The corridor was clear, so Serdot approached the door. Garion’s key turned the lock and Serdot smiled to himself.
He cautiously stepped inside. The room was nothing unusual, spacious and luxurious like the other apartments of the palace. But Lord Reimvick was not a showy man. He traveled light and kept his possessions to a minimum, despite the wealth of his house. But Serdot was certain the materially humble yet socially gregarious man had something to hide.
Serdot took his time picking through the drawers, books, pockets, and pouches. A dish of parchment ashes caught his attention. Serdot knew it was not unusual for high lords to destroy sensitive correspondence, but it was just another hint stored away in Serdot’s mind.
He came to the wardroom door and found it locked. Garion’s key turned it and Serdot proceeded to search. He froze when he thought he heard a breath. The only sound that followed was a bird at the window. Even so, Serdot’s widsemer training urged him out of the room.
He left the wardroom door ajar and returned to the main chamber. He opened the main door and after a moment closed and locked it again, as if he’d left. Then he waited. Sure as the summer sun, he heard movement in the wardroom.
He placed his hand on the dagger in his belt as he watched a black-gloved hand reach out and push the wardroom door open. Then a black-slippered foot stepped through. The dark figure spotted Serdot as he inched al
ong the wall toward the figure. The figure hesitated briefly, then sprinted for the window.
“Stop!” Serdot shouted. “In the name of the Marshal of Inq—”
The dark figure wheeled around and jabbed at his face with a small fist. Serdot blocked the attempt and punched back at the black mask. The sound of a woman surprised him. She recovered quickly and they traded punches, blocks, and kicks.
“Who are you?” Serdot managed to ask as she pulled away toward the window.
The woman surprised him with a backflip from the windowsill. Her feet caught him in the chest and he stumbled back. But he kept his balance and grasped her ankle, twisting her down to the floor. When she grabbed a paring knife from the table, Serdot realized she had been unarmed.
“I’m not going to let you leave,” he said, pulling out his long dagger. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
The woman behind the mask rushed him with the knife but her attempts were halfhearted. His opponent was more intent on escaping than fighting. In his attempt to disarm her, Serdot slashed at her arm. The black leather parted, revealing a shaped plate of thin steel. She stabbed at him but he caught her hand and twisted. Then he landed a fist across her jaw, opening the mask. Fair skin shone out from the black.
Serdot threw her to the floor. “I’ll not be bothered with your armor for my next strike,” he said. “Who are you!”
“Get off!” she yelled, driving her little fist into his ear.
Disoriented, he loosened his grip on her. He let go of her as she slowly came to her feet. Knife still in hand, she removed the torn mask and pulled back her hood. Serdot swallowed his breath as her brown hair tumbled out of the leather. Her beautiful lips were split and bleeding, her eye already black and blue.
“Princess Milisend…?”
“Lord Valient never gave me the name of his supposed political counselor,” she said.
He took a deep breath and lowered his dagger. “My name is Serdot. I’m sorry to have hurt you, but I…Forgive me for asking, but why are you dressed like an assassin and hiding in a room accessed by a suspected assassin?”
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