First Rider's Call

by Kristen Britain

  When all was quiet once again, Alessandros explained he had made the Black Star immeasurably stronger, and that it was the greatest weapon the world had ever known. To do so, he had had to make sacrifices, but we shouldn’t be sad, he said. The sacrifices would save so many more lives. The assembled shifted uneasily and I wondered what he had done this time.

  Then he made the curtain vanish.

  Seated in perfect rows upon the stage were the revered warriors of the Lion regiment. Our best and bravest soldiers, the pride of the Empire. They wore tunics of purest white trimmed with gold. Lions embroidered in red and gold thread roared upon their chests. Beneath the tunics they wore their golden parade armor, glittering in the light of the prisms. Their golden helms were placed at their feet, and bared swords across their knees.

  Renald sat in the front row with the other officers, his tunic adorned with glistening medals of valor, medals of service, and medals of merit. About his waist was the gold-embossed belt I had had crafted for him when he made captain. The belt buckle was a lion’s head.

  My squire, my young man, the brave warrior.

  They were dead. All of them.

  Crude stitches lashed together the gashes of flesh at their throats. They’d been drained of blood, and their skin was as white as their tunics. Mouths gaped open grotesquely, lips curled back, and their eyes had rolled to the backs of their heads showing only the whites. Corpses dressed up and propped up like macabre dolls; parodies of what these men had once been.

  It took several moments for the enormity of it all to sink in. At first everyone was too stunned, then wailing exploded in the chamber as the assembled recognized loved ones and friends among Arcosia’s Lions. Brothers, fathers, sons, and husbands.

  I have never known better men, especially Renald. Merciful in battle, loyal to the core. They had sworn their hearts and lives to Arcosia. Not to this.

  Even as the whole of my body numbed in shock, Alessandros walked among the corpses, gazing fondly at them, putting his hand on a shoulder here, gripping an arm there. He made the sacrifice, he explained, for the good of Mornhavonia. It had been the choice of the soldiers to willingly give up their lives thus, to strengthen the Black Star. They were now renowned martyrs, he said, and should be praised.

  The hall smelled of bitter sickness and there was much weeping, but many seemed to want to believe Alessandros, as though it would soothe their pain. I did not believe him. I could not.

  Later on, he called me to his apartments and confided that the Lions never knew what was coming, that they’d been brought before him one at a time, and he slaughtered them systematically like a line of cattle. The words tumbled shakily from his mouth, and his foot twitched in nervous fashion.

  He was confessing to me, as though I were a priest, to alleviate the burden of his sins. I think more that he wanted to justify his actions.

  “I am god, after all,” he said, “and it is my right to give or take life.”

  All I had seen was the taking, but I said nothing. He watched me carefully for my reaction.

  After some moments I ventured, “You sent me away on that campaign so I wouldn’t know.”

  “My dear, dear Hadriax, you comprehend me all too well. I couldn’t take the chance you’d talk me out of it. I know how much you loved Renald, and the esteem you held for him. I am sorry for your loss, for he was a good young man, but it was necessary.”

  I could only swallow hard and will my tears to stay back.

  “Think of it!” Alessandros said. “With the sacrifice of the Lions, the Black Star is stronger than ever. It now embodies their strength of heart, fighting spirit, and strategic skill. All of them live on in the Star. With it we will conquer the New Lands, and then take our war to the Empire itself. The Emperor will pay for abandoning us.”

  I wanted to kill him right there. I wanted to wrap my fingers about his throat and choke the life out of him. My fingers opened and closed even as the rage fired up in my heart. But I knew I could not do it. He had been using so much etherea and he was protected by the Black Star. He could not die by such ordinary means.

  I could bear no more and so left. I now know, after this latest atrocity, that my alliance with the Green Riders is inevitable; that my pact with Lil Ambriodhe is sealed. Alessandros’ betrayal has brought me to this.

  May it bring him to his death.

  THE KING’S DECISION

  They were doomed.

  Three of Laren’s Riders would never return to Sacor City, and others were badly injured. Dale, with her grave wounds, remained in Woodhaven where she could receive care without being moved more than necessary.

  Alton stayed in Woodhaven, too, to discuss matters with his father, and then he’d return to the wall to see what more he could learn from it, and to investigate the unusual properties of Haethen Toundrel. His wounds appeared more psychic than physical. He would not talk to Karigan, would not even look at her. Some breach greater than the one in the wall divided them, and both Laren and Karigan were at a loss to explain the cause.

  And now, after all their trials and losses, their sacrifices in service to their king and country, that same king was about to doom the country by splitting it asunder, by alienating the one lord-governor he needed most on his side.

  All the lord-governors, except Lord D’Yer, ringed the long table in the council chamber. Most were attended by an aide of some sort. Lord D’Ivary, though not technically a prisoner, was closely watched by guards.

  The lords Adolind, Mirwell, Penburn, and Wayman were there, as well as L’Petrie, Oldbury, and Steward-Governor Leonar Hillander, Zachary’s cousin. Representing Lord D’Yer was his own steward, Aldeon Mize. One side of the table was occupied by the eastern lords as a block, as if to separate themselves from all others, just as they were geographically separated from the rest of Sacoridia.

  They were proud and independent in spirit, attributes that lent them an air of superiority, and allowed them to survive isolation and the harsh conditions of sea and mountain.

  In their isolation, they had almost become a law unto themselves, but through the strong leadership of Lord Coutre, they managed to retain loyalty to the crown. Singly, they were formidable. As a group, their support or lack thereof could make or break a monarch’s rule.

  Arey, Bairdly, Coutre.

  All three watched Zachary expectantly. Lord Coutre, bent and elderly, his face beaten by sun and sea, was nevertheless a commanding figure with his heavy white brows and unsettling scowl.

  Laren knew about Lord Coutre’s ultimatum. Zachary must agree to marry his daughter, Lady Estora, or lose the support of the east. Though it made all the sense in the world that Zachary marry Estora, the coercion infuriated him, and he refused to give Lord Coutre the satisfaction of an answer.

  They were doomed.

  There was always the chance, Laren supposed, that the support of the other lord-governors would weigh in Zachary’s favor, but it was only a chance. The lord-governors were a fractious and self-interested lot at best.

  Zachary obviously hoped D’Ivary’s appalling behavior would be enough to sway the others, but as appalling as his acts had been, it was hard to say whether or not the lord-governors would support or go against one of their own. They might try to force Zachary’s hand so that he’d have to make an unpopular decision without their backing.

  How could Zachary afford to offend Lord Coutre at this time?

  Laren thought she knew the answer. Someone else had his heart and he couldn’t bring himself to do what was best for his country and commit to marrying Lady Estora. This, despite the fact he had known all his life he would one day marry for political expediency, not for love.

  Laren had her suspicions about who captivated him, and that was the most unsettling part of all.

  She shifted her stance in the shadow of his chair. Sperren and Colin winged him at the head of the table. They looked just as unhappy as she felt.

  “I have called you to this council meeting in regards to
actions taken by Lord-Governor Hedric D’Ivary,” Zachary said. “You have been briefed on his breaches of king’s law and the charges I place against him. He used the power of his office against his very own people, subjects of Sacoridia.”

  “Those border scum aren’t ‘subjects’,” Lord Oldbury retorted. “They refuse to acknowledge our laws and sovereignty.”

  Zachary’s demeanor remained pleasant and calm. “They live within Sacoridia’s borders, and therefore they fall under my protection.” He paused, waiting for more disagreement, but amazingly, none came. “I wish to present to you the actions committed by Lord D’Ivary, personally or by his command, and you may judge him as you will.”

  He then gazed pointedly at Lord Coutre. “I should hope you would judge Lord D’Ivary without bias, and not condemn him or free him of charges because of some personal ambition or favor you seek of me. This is too important a matter to trivialize with political schemes and goals.”

  Lord Coutre’s scowl deepened.

  “I shall not present the case on my own,” Zachary said.

  Laren raised an eyebrow. Now what was he up to?

  “My words,” he continued, “are inadequate to convey the suffering of border folk in D’Ivary Province. Therefore, I have brought some witnesses to speak before you.”

  Sperren and Colin were clearly as surprised as she. When had Zachary arranged this? How? Why hadn’t he informed them?

  On the king’s word, witnesses were ushered into the council chamber one at a time. Lynx came in and told of all he witnessed, swearing an oath it was true. Next, a captain of the Sacoridian militia spoke of finding mass graves filled with border folk. Two of his men dragged in a mercenary commander.

  “It’s true,” the mercenary said. “Lord D’Ivary paid us to impersonate Sacoridian troops. Wanted to make it look bad for your king.”

  Even some of D’Ivary’s own subjects came to speak. “Don’t like squatters on my land,” said a taciturn farmer, “but them squatters didn’t deserve what they got.”

  Lord D’Ivary grew paler and paler as witness after witness filed in. The other lords questioned them as they wished.

  Then border people themselves came in, telling all they had endured, of their flight from groundmite raids, of seeking refuge in D’Ivary Province where the former lady-governor would have provided them succor, only to find things had changed.

  Several spoke of loved ones dead or missing, of women raped. One mother spoke of her twin daughters being borne away by mercenaries for their amusement. The girls were only eight.

  Zachary’s expression did not change. He merely gazed upon his lord-governors, watching them with interest. Lord Coutre’s scowl crumbled. He was the father of three daughters, the youngest of whom was eight years old. He rose from his chair to comfort the weeping mother.

  Laren, who had known about some of the atrocities, was rocked by these personal accounts, and now knew Zachary had been right not to bend to any of Coutre’s demands just to gain his support. The case deserved to be heard on its own terms, and to speak to the hearts of each provincial lord sitting in the chamber.

  Zachary had surprised her, and everyone else, once again. He was as formidable and brilliant as his grandmother, Queen Isen, had been, and Laren should have known better than to doubt him.

  The testimony of the witnesses was not only damning, but emotionally draining, and when the last left the chamber, a heavy pall fell over them all.

  Presently Zachary said, “I welcome your debate.”

  No one offered any. D’Ivary searched the faces of his peers for any sign of reprieve.

  “Those—those people lied!”

  “All of them?” Lord Adolind asked quietly. “The king’s soldiers, the mercenary, your own subjects?”

  “You betrayed your trust to the subjects of Sacoridia,” Lady Bairdly said, “and to all of us.”

  D’Ivary’s face drained of all color. “But I didn’t do all those things! I—”

  “You caused or allowed them to happen,” young Lord Penburn said, disgust plain in his voice. “You allowed those things to happen, and you participated.”

  “A terrible misuse of power and trust,” Lady Bairdly added.

  D’Ivary’s voice quavered. “B-but . . . I can fix things. I’ll help them.”

  “Too late for that,” Lord Adolind said.

  He had welcomed the refugees into his lands, Laren knew, and well understood the hardships they faced on the borders. She had watched the disbelief on his face as he listened to the horrors the witnesses had fled from.

  “Is there anyone here,” Zachary asked, “who doubts Lord D’Ivary’s guilt?”

  Lord Oldbury seemed to struggle within himself, but did not voice dissent.

  “Very well,” Zachary said.

  “Please,” D’Ivary said, “please have mercy. I’ve a family.”

  “Having a family did not prevent what you did to the refugees,” Lord Coutre said.

  D’Ivary, his color ghastly, stared at the tabletop.

  Zachary folded his hands before him. “Usually it is my decision as to how justice should be meted out. This time, however, I wish to defer that decision.”

  Upon his word, one of the border folk was brought in. Laren recognized him. Lynx had brought him in that day to report the atrocities in D’Ivary Province.

  “This is Durgan Atkins,” Zachary said. “He lost much due to Lord D’Ivary’s actions. I have asked him to confer with his people and come up with an appropriate punishment.”

  D’Ivary suddenly lost control and sobbed. No one offered him their pity. No doubt he had thought his worst punishment would be some sort of comfortable confinement suited to his station, but instead he would face the enmity and revenge of the very people he had hurt.

  Laren had to applaud Zachary. Certainly his lords would see the justice in the border folk deciding the punishment. By removing the burden from himself, Zachary did not have to make a decision the lord-governors could use against him at some later time.

  “Your decision?” Zachary asked Atkins.

  “We’ve talked long and hard. We’d like D’Ivary stripped of his lands, wealth, rank, and title. And we want him exiled.”

  D’Ivary loosed a sigh of relief. There would be no execution, and banishment wasn’t always so bad.

  “To where would you have him exiled?” Zachary asked.

  Atkins turned and glared at D’Ivary. “To the northern border, with only the clothes on his back and a day’s rations. We’ll see to it he doesn’t sneak back south.”

  “Done,” Zachary said.

  D’Ivary let out a heart-rending cry, but soldiers entered to haul him away. Laren wanted to wilt in relief that the whole affair was over. Zachary had done well. Better than well, in her estimation. The lord-governors looked relieved themselves.

  No major plays for power, she thought. But it didn’t mean there wasn’t more to come.

  “Shall we continue with business?” Zachary asked.

  The resurgence of magic was discussed at length, Zachary alluding now and then to a conversation he and Laren had had with Karigan about events that took place down at the wall. Laren recalled how they met with her only after Destarion had given his leave. Karigan, though weak and easily fatigued, insisted they meet someplace other than the mending wing, of which she was heartily weary. The king recommended his sunshine-filled study, and Karigan made her painstaking way through castle corridors, batting away poor Ben’s assistance.

  The account she gave them of conveying Mornhavon to the future naturally astonished them, and when she revealed she had no way of knowing how far he’d been taken, they set to planning immediately. Laren and Zachary did, anyway. Overcome by fatigue, Karigan had fallen asleep in her chair. When Laren rose to send for Ben, Zachary urged her to let the slumbering Rider be, and produced a throw to drape on Karigan’s lap. They then resumed their strategizing session with Karigan’s light snoring in the background.

  In discussing
with the lord-governors how the power of Blackveil had been thwarted, Zachary skirted the issue of the Green Riders’ use of magic. It would not do to release too much information about the special abilities of his Riders. Doing so would undermine his ability to seek information, and possibly endanger them. Few would trust them.

  Instead of focusing on what had happened, he turned to preparations for the threat to come.

  The meeting went on for some time, with no clear course of action in the offing. Zachary ended the meeting on a positive note, with the confirmation ceremony of young Hendry Penburn to the rank of lord-governor. The pomp and ritual seemed to quell any ill residue left over from the D’Ivary proceedings.

  Finally, Zachary dismissed the lord-governors for a well-deserved feast. As they filed out, he asked Lord Coutre to hold back.

  He said, “I thank you for judging D’Ivary on the merits of his case, and not basing your decision on whether or not I had agreed to some contract.”

  The scowl emerged on Coutre’s face again. “Let us just say D’Ivary’s guilt spoke for itself. The ingrate deserves what he got. And don’t think I was doing you any favor.”

  “Of course not,” Zachary said, his tone cool but respectful. “I am glad you are frank with me, my lord, for I shall always know where you stand.”

  “Are you so sure?”

  “Indeed.”

  What was Zachary playing at now? Laren wondered in alarm. Angering Lord Coutre wasn’t going to prove anything.

  Zachary removed some rolled documents from beneath his mantle of state. “I have here a contract of marriage to which I am tentatively agreeing, with some amendments, of course.”

  Coutre was stunned, Laren was stunned, Sperren and Colin were stunned, and even the Weapons standing guard were stunned.

  Coutre stared from Zachary to the documents, and back again, as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes or ears. “You’re agreeing?”

  “Tentatively.” Zachary tossed the documents onto the tabletop. “I require Lady Estora’s consent in the matter.”

  “Oh, she’ll consent all right. We’re all—”