First Rider's Call

by Kristen Britain

  Journal of Hadriax el Fex

  Though we have been here two months, I still marvel over the magnificence of these New Lands. The coast is rugged with thick spires of evergreens that grow boundlessly beyond the horizon. We could make fleets upon fleets of ships from them for the Empire. Our own vessels rest at anchor in a large bay the inhabitants call Ull-um.

  These lands have no lack of resources—abundant wildlife and amazing fisheries. Vast schools of fish swim in the bay, and it is almost impossible not to catch them. Captain Verano laughed that they were trying to flip right into his gig as he sailed about the bay.

  This is a primitive place, wild and nearly untouched. The fresh water is cool and refreshing, and the air good to breathe, far better than the noxious vapors above our cities in Arcosia, and the dying lands that surround them. This is a vital place.

  We have also found evidence of etherea. Mostly it is the heathen priests who possess the use of the art, and it is used in the most ridiculous “religious” ceremonies to prove they are touched by the favor of their numerous gods. Alessandros and I have been much amused by their displays. Alessandros has not yet shown them his own command of the art, and has likewise ordered the other mages to conceal their abilities for the time being.

  The Sacor people are squalid, living in rough longhouses, their children crawling on dirt floors with vermin and dogs. They are warlike among one another, the chieftains waging war over petty differences. They are quite in awe of our fine dress and trinkets, and look upon our mechanicals with some curiosity and fear. Alessandros thinks these people should be easy to tame, and will welcome the embrace of the Empire.

  THE SUMMER THRONE ROOM

  Six ...

  Laren Mapstone, captain of His Majesty’s Messenger Service, the Green Riders, silently counted off the hours as the distant notes of the bell tolled down in Sacor City.

  Seven . . .

  The bell had been installed in the Chapel of the Moon’s tower on the occasion of the king’s last birthday. It—and the rumbling of her stomach—reminded her all too well that the supper hour had come and gone quite some time ago.

  Eight . . .

  The final doleful tone hung in the air for a time before mercifully fading away. Laren grimaced and shifted her stance, eyeing the king’s elderly castellan with envy. Sperren slept as peacefully as a baby in his chair. She, on the other hand, had been standing for hours at the king’s side as he listened to petitioners. Her back was killing her.

  Nothing unusual, she thought.

  Lord-Governor D’Ivary now stood before King Zachary. He had ambled into the throne room just as the king was ready to pronounce the long day done, but with eminent patience, Zachary granted D’Ivary an audience and listened as the longwinded lord-governor blustered and complained of refugees from the north flooding into his provincial lands.

  Colin Dovekey, one of the king’s advisors, sat in his own chair with his chin propped on his fist, stone-faced but attentive. All others, except for the statuelike black-clad Weapons standing in alcoves along the walls, had abandoned the throne room hours ago. The lingering gold-orange summer light cast hazy columns through the west side windows. Soon pages would enter to light lamps.

  “I appreciate your concerns, Lord D’Ivary,” King Zachary said.

  Laren watched the king carefully as he gazed down at the lord-governor and his secretary standing at the base of the dais. Zachary’s features appeared placid and unperturbed, his tone even and polite. But Laren, who had known him since he was a boy, noted the slight tightening of his jaw and the narrowing of his brow.

  “Begging your indulgence, sire,” D’Ivary said, “but I’m not sure you do appreciate the extent of my concerns.” He was a pear-shaped fellow who had a tendency to thrust his belly about as though his recently acquired power and status were a physical thing. Laren failed to dismiss an image of an overfed rooster.

  Hedric D’Ivary had arisen to his current position after the death of his elder cousin. The former lady-governor had left no surviving heirs, forcing the provincial clan elders to debate over who the most suitable successor was. They had chosen Hedric.

  The process of choosing a new lord-governor was painstaking and prickly business, for should the current monarch’s line fail, any lord-governor was eligible to assume the monarchy. In the past, this had led to grim and bloody civil war.

  Other provinces had recently undergone this process, for many nobles had been murdered during Prince Amilton’s coup attempt a little over two years ago. Several new lord-governors, or “new bloods” as their more established counterparts had taken to calling them, had never expected to rise to such a lofty position in life, and relished their new power. They lacked the tradition and statesmanship of their predecessors. The governing clans were in flux, and so were their loyalties. King Zachary had his hands full.

  “These ‘refugees’ as you call them—outlaws and cutthroats I call them—wander the countryside and set up their shanties wherever they please,” Lord D’Ivary said. “Never mind if it’s a field under cultivation or pasture land. It’s thrown the common folk who cultivate that land into disarray, and mark my words, there will be trouble come harvest time. Even our towns suffer. They beg in the streets, these refugees, and resort to thieving when no one hands over what they want.”

  Much of what D’Ivary said was true to a degree, Laren knew, without even having to touch her special ability to read him. The other lord-governor feeling the brunt of the northern exodus, Jaston Adolind, had issued a similar complaint. Groundmite attacks in the north had scared enough settlers that whole villages had packed up and moved south into more civilized and protected provincial lands. The towns and farmsteads were ill prepared to accommodate the influx. Adolind, poorest of all the provinces, suffered a good deal more than D’Ivary. While there might be a cutthroat element among some of the refugees, however, most were simply families seeking safety.

  “Could it be,” Colin Dovekey said in his gruff voice, “that this is an internal matter which you must resolve within your own province?”

  D’Ivary turned to him, jutting his belly out and lifting his chin. Chins, rather, Laren thought. “I would not be here if it were an internal matter. I haven’t the resources to cope with these people.”

  Colin raised a bushy gray eyebrow, searing through D’Ivary with hawk’s eyes, an intensity borne of twenty-five years as a Weapon. “Your lands are counted among the most fertile and rich in all of Sacoridia, my lord. You haven’t the resources?”

  “Yes, I’ve fertile lands now being occupied by squatters who trample and ruin growing crops and steal livestock. The nobles who look to me have not the resources to patrol every acre of their holdings to remove these people before the harvest is destroyed.”

  “Ah,” the king said with a soft intonation. “I now see what resources you are speaking of. You seek to forcibly remove these refugees, but you haven’t the soldiers to do so.”

  D’Ivary brightened, thinking he had at last found a sympathetic ear. “Yes, sire. In D’Ivary, we are farmers, not soldiers. This is not something we could do ourselves.”

  “Tell me,” the king said, steepling his fingers, “what would you do if you had the necessary troops?”

  “I would have them patrol the countryside and weed out the squatters, and return them to the north. Then I would seal off the northern borders except to those who have legitimate business in the province. Armed soldiers would be just the thing. A display of force is the only tactic they’ll understand. They have shown nothing but insolence to provincial and local authorities thus far.”

  “So, if I understand your request,” the king said, with a slight smile, “you wish for me to provide you with the force necessary to remove these people. A force bearing the royal banner of Sacoridia.”

  D’Ivary grinned. “You understand my needs completely, sire. A king must show his strength to his people.”

  A silence hung in the air.

  When the king
finally replied, his voice was entirely reasonable. He did not shout, yet his rebuke resonated with kingly resolve. “You forget yourself, Lord D’Ivary. These people you seek to remove forcibly under the royal banner of Sacoridia are Sacoridians. They may look to no lord—not even to me, their king—to govern them in the northern wildlands, but they still live within Sacoridia’s borders.

  “Do you fail to comprehend their importance to commerce? They provide the timber and pelts our merchants require. They have also been a buffer in the north, fighting off raiders. Fighting for survival is an everyday occurrence for them, making them independent-minded. Only now has the frequency and intensity of groundmite attacks forced them to seek safe harbor. And you would turn them out, refusing them help in their hour of need?”

  Zachary shook his head in disbelief. “In time these folk may tame the north, further strengthening Sacoridia’s commerce, and its borders. Until then, Lord D’I-vary, Sacoridia may be made up of twelve provinces and the free holdings of the borders, but it is all one land. Devastating battles were fought to unify this country, and I will not turn Sacoridian against Sacoridian.

  “Think of some other way to help them. Your cousin, the late lady-governor, might have found some other solution in which the refugees were put to work assisting with farming in exchange for food and lodging.”

  D’Ivary’s smile faded to a ghost of itself, and a hardness settled into his eyes. “My cousin was a kindly soul, but weak-minded. A flaw with her line.”

  Laren clenched her hands behind her back. His cousin had died because she courageously resisted Amilton’s claim to rule. She had died in this very room, a torturous, painful death. Weak-minded, indeed.

  “She allowed our provincial militia to dwindle to a house guard. My nobles would be hard pressed to call up an army of commoners more interested in farming, as they should be. These northern outlanders are of no use to my province.”

  “Not all strength is shown in force of arms,” Zachary said.

  D’Ivary rubbed his chin, a shrewd gleam lighting in his eyes. “Well said, sire. I could not agree more. For instance, there is the matter of an heir to ensure the strength of Sacoridia’s rule. I would not be alone in expressing concern about the country’s stability should no heir be produced within a reasonable amount of time.”

  The king froze at the abrupt change of topic—a veiled threat?—his knuckles whitening as he clenched the polished armrests of his throne. Laren could tell he struggled to contain himself. The scritch-scratch of a pen as D’I-vary’s secretary made notes was counterpoint to silence.

  It would not be the first time the matter of an heir had been brought up, nor would it be the last. It seemed every noble in the lands desired to parade a daughter or sister before Zachary in hopes of securing the favor and alliance of the high king. One eastern lord-governor in particular had been more persistent than the rest.

  Had Zachary’s father lived longer, no doubt this matter would have been resolved long ago. Left to his own devices, however, Zachary turned away all prospects, and this one issue he refused to discuss with Laren. His subjects called him, appropriately enough, the “Bachelor King,” and the situation was a favored topic of speculation among aristocratic circles. Laren had even caught wind of actual wagering; nobles casting lots on who and when Zachary might marry.

  To keep the confidence of the realm, to end this speculation, he must marry one of suitable rank and produce a royal heir. Soon.

  Laren found his resistance confounding. There were no ongoing illicit romances, despite various rumors of a secret lover tucked away in some tiny hamlet on the coast somewhere, and though he had not always led the chaste life of a cleric, he hadn’t even sired any bastards. She had checked.

  Colin Dovekey broke the tense silence. “We were speaking of refugees.”

  “And so we were,” D’Ivary murmured, his gaze intent on the king.

  Zachary crossed his legs. He was not in good humor, but he refused to rise to D’Ivary’s bait. “I do not condone the use of force,” he said, ignoring the subject of an heir altogether. “Nor will I provide you with soldiers. Much of my force is patrolling the north anyway. If the refugees are such a drain on the province, find a way to make use of them so they help themselves. Lord Adolind has found a way to manage, and he possesses fewer resources than D’Ivary Province.”

  D’Ivary scowled, then forced a neutral expression on his face.

  Zachary leaned forward. “Not so long ago you swore an oath of fealty to me when you took on the mantle of lord-governor. Will you give me your word on your honor that no harm will come to these refugees?”

  D’Ivary puffed out his cheeks. “Of course, sire.” He bowed. “I shall abide by your wishes. On my honor.”

  Laren fingered her winged horse brooch, reaching out to D’Ivary with her special ability to determine the honesty of his words. The answer came to her like a caress in her mind, and it surprised her.

  After D’Ivary departed with his secretary in tow, the king turned his gaze upon her. No longer the stern king, he simply looked a very weary man.

  “Well?” he said.

  Laren smiled weakly. “He spoke truth. He will not harm those people.”

  Zachary raised his eyebrows. “You are certain?”

  “It was a clear reading.”

  He removed the shiny silver fillet from his brow and passed his fingers through light, amber hair. “Of course. I shouldn’t even have to ask. You’ve never been wrong before. It’s just . . . It’s just that he’s difficult to trust.”

  “That goes for the whole cartload of ’em,” Colin said. “The lord-governors.”

  The grumpy disgust in his voice made Laren and Zachary—both tired by the long day themselves—laugh.

  “Truly,” the king said, as the laughter died down, “as much as those border people disdain governance, they are within our borders. With no lord to speak for them, especially to the likes of Hedric D’Ivary, they’ve only me.”

  “And not the sense to appreciate it,” Colin muttered.

  Hear, hear, Laren thought. The border people had no notion of the champion they had in their king. They certainly wouldn’t thank him for it even if they knew. Non-interference was what they desired in their lives—until they needed help, of course. While she agreed with Zachary’s support of them, it would not endear him further to the lord-governors, or to the hardworking folk of the provinces who faithfully paid their taxes and obeyed king’s law.

  Before they could speak further, there was a commotion at the throne room entrance. A boy in the livery of the Green Foot burst through the doorway and hustled down the throne room runner. Laren and Zachary exchanged glances, wondering what else could possibly happen this day.

  The boy slid to his knees before the king, and Laren grimaced at the clumsy obeisance, but she observed the hint of an amused smile lingering on Zachary’s lips. Perhaps he remembered himself as a boy.

  “Rise, lad,” he said.

  The boy did so, cheeks pink from running. He was no more than eleven years old with a mop of sandy hair falling over his eyes.

  “You’ve a message for King Zachary, Josh?” Laren asked.

  The boy looked startled to hear his name issue from her lips. The runners of the Green Foot regarded her as rather imposing, she knew, from discussions with Gerad, their leader.

  “Ma’am . . . Captain,” the boy faltered, with a slight tremble to his lower lip. “Yes’m. I’ve a message.”

  The Green Foot consisted of fleet youngsters—many of them offspring of the lesser nobility or favored servants—who ran messages about the castle. They were placed here to learn the ways of court, and to attend the castle’s little school, definitely a boon to those with impoverished families. Melry, Laren’s adopted daughter, had run messages for the Green Foot before going off to school in Selium.

  Unlike Green Riders, they fulfilled no magical calling to do their work, nor were they gifted with any special abilities. Laren did not overse
e their day to day operations, but Gerad reported to her as a formality.

  Because the Green Foot did resemble the Riders—they wore messenger green with little winged feet embroidered in gold on their sleeves—and because they were, after all, messengers serving an important function, Laren made sure she knew each youngster’s name, and that they understood their responsibilities and proper conduct in court. She would speak to Gerad later about Josh’s rather graceless demeanor before the king.

  Josh turned to the king but looked at his feet. “Word has been passed up from the main gate that Major Everson and Captain Ansible have ridden through the first wall and are on the Winding Way this very moment.”

  Laren immediately forgave the boy any impropriety whatsoever, even those as yet uncommitted. The delegation—at least its last remnant—had finally come home.

  RETURNINGS

  After Josh’s announcement, the sleepy throne room came to life. Servants were beckoned and Josh was sent off to alert the mending wing to prepare for the arrival of the wounded. Word was sent to barracks and stables to prepare as well.

  A table was brought out and set with food and drink, and pages came through lighting extra lamps as the last glint of daylight waned in the west side windows. Sperren continued to snooze in his chair, not at all disturbed from his dreams by the commotion. Laren, Zachary, and Colin waited, and for Laren, the waiting was intolerable.

  When Ty had ridden ahead with news of the attack on the delegation, he told them all he knew at the time. That had been several weeks ago. Now that the others had made their way home, perhaps holes in his story could be filled in. The waiting would be over.

  It would be over, too, for those wanting word of their loved ones. Laren could see in her mind’s eye people gathered at the castle gate, straining to glimpse the return of a husband, sister, father . . . Some would end their evening rejoicing, others in heartbreak.