by A J Callen
His father spat out a piece of half-chewed flesh. “What filthy tripe are you speaking, boy? What I am saying, Goran, is that if fate does not favor us this time then you will be wise to counsel our next King in choosing his Queen. Dominique is younger and prettier than the most fetching noble women in all Avidene, including Lord Maydestone’s harlot daughter, Juliana.”
“One might say it was fortunate Lady Juliana didn’t marry or she would soon be a childless widow. Is that not true?” Goran asked.
His father roared with laughter, spitting out what remained stuffed in his porcine cheeks. “And such a funeral feast it will be! Lord Delcarden has no heir or surviving family so all his possessions will revert to the Council until the King is crowned and his Majesty bestows them upon his loyal nobles as he sees fit.”
He clapped his hand on Goran’s back. “Wouldn’t you like to be the new Lord of Delcarden and enjoy the bounty of his land?”
Goran poured himself another cup of wine. “Tempting as it is, Father, I have set my sights on higher ground and will not retreat down that hill for anything or anyone.”
An ironic sneer hovered about his father’s heavy mouth. “And why should I expect less from my only son?” He leaned closer to Goran’s ear. “Come what may though, Lord Maydestone is certain to exert influence upon the new King to choose his daughter. If you are victorious you will have your choice, if not, then our new King—and you know of whom I speak—cannot even consider such an undesirable union.
“At least, not if he wants to secure his royal status and support among the nobles pressing for greater power under the new King. Lord Coranthium will not allow it and neither will I. Do you understand? I have passed our sacred sword to you, and now you and your sister must honor your duty to blood and family above all else.”
“Above the Crown and Kingdom, Father?”
“Don’t mince words with me, boy. Without the sacrifices made by our family, there wouldn’t be a Kingdom to speak of.” The serving girl leaned in closer until her bosom almost brushed his father’s scraggly beard. He leered at her and gulped his wine. “Well? Do we agree where your duty lies?”
Goran rested his hand on the jeweled hilt of Siduri, the prized sword handed down from his heroic ancestor, Dragomir Velizar. He was grateful to finally hold his birthright close to his side; since he was a child, he had feared this glorious day might never come. His pathetic, drunken father could have easily sold this priceless heirloom as he had so many others. And for what? All so he might wallow a little longer in a pit of vice and debauchery until the whore’s pox destroyed what was left of a once great warrior.
Goran knew without doubt that only he, as the most deserving and experienced contender to the throne, would bestow glory and honor to his family’s name once more, just as Dragomir Velizar had done during the Age of Heroes.
Goran poured himself another cup of wine. “I understand one’s duty more than any young noble in this room, so on that account you have nothing to worry your sleep.” He raised his cup in a toast. “Or your plans.”
“Then let us drink to a Velizar in the royal bedchamber, come what may, and let our family’s fortunes rise with the strongest tide.”
At the sound of clapping, Goran clicked his cup against his father’s but did not drink. The Strathwald protectors rose to their feet and cheered followed by the other protectors and Council members as Lord Penvro Strathwald of Aidondell and his son, Robert, sporting their family sword, Bailram for the first time, entered the hall.
Lord Aidondell’s nervous brown eyes, set tightly in his time-worn face, watched Robert’s every movement as though his only son might keel over dead from an unseen wound. Robert’s color was only now replacing the unhealthy pallor of his face. He sat hunched over at their private table in a crumpled, listless posture.
Goran’s father swallowed a mouthful of meat. “So, what’s this I hear from Dowrick about young Strathwald over there and the Craverston bitch? Boy looks like he was just turned away from death’s door, and poor Felicity ready to be tied to a horse and sent to the Avidene madhouse.”
“You know as much as I, Father. What surprises me is that the Holy Seer and the others, except Dowrick, have excused Robert and Felicity, claiming they were influenced against their will and not in their right minds.”
“More of that Choldath rubbish? A young man does not have to summon evil spirits to conjure the beast with two backs.”
“If that’s the explanation, then they should have been expelled in shame at once as the rites demand, yet here they remain.”
His father chuckled and gingerly scratched his groin, eyeing the young serving girl.
“Ah, well, who can truly blame young Robert for that? It’s not our minds doing our bidding when we see a fetching and winsome maid laid bare before us.” He took a gulp of wine. “And who is not in favor of showing leniency if truly warranted? Still, it is unsettling to the eye seeing a young man affected thus.”
Goran squeezed the hilt of his new sword. “We have all seen strange and wondrous things since our night in the forest and I fear there is more to this enemy than the creature slain by Lionsbury.”
His father raised his hand in protest. “Lord Coranthium has prepared a detailed report of similar encounters to present before Council. As ghastly as these attacks have been, the general consensus is that these creatures can and will be vanquished without raising undo alarm among the general population. As I must remind you, our people are more terrified of a premeditated slave rebellion than of some long forgotten, witless worm crawling out of its godforsaken earth hole.”
“And what of Lord Fromund’s mysterious death? There are rumors of dark magic at play yet none will speak of it.”
“That again?” His father shook his head and wiped the grease from his lips. “I didn’t care for Randar when he lived and certainly won’t shed a tear now that he’s dead nor concern myself about the precise nature of his passing. Lord Lionsbury’s account, brief as it may be, is sufficient explanation to set the matter to rest along with his Lordship’s memory. You would be wise to accept the official account, Goran, since Lord Coranthium is in full agreement.”
Goran watched Simon and Rachel rejoin the Evermere brothers and their father at the table. Simon, the dark circles still festering under his eyes, had been uncommonly quiet since the night of his ordeal and seemed distracted during the physical competitions; to his great chagrin, this had resulted in marked losses to opponents he should easily have subdued.
“That Blackfyre fellow is making a considerable name for himself. He has seen and experienced things in the Corridor of Shadows that no one else has even dreamed of. The Holy Seer holds him in high regard and shelters him under her very own wing.”
“And so? What is a bloody slave bastard to us? Let him frolic and enjoy his taste of freedom while he can. When these useless rites are finished, he’ll find himself right back under the cracking whip for what’s left of his miserable life, or having his eyes and balls pecked clean by crows in a tree, if Callor Tiberion has his way.”
“Alas, it may not be as simple as that, Father. We have all been initiated. The blood memory of the Asmadu Vohra is now a part of who we are. Simon and the others are fast becoming warriors to be reckoned with.”
“So, you are saying you are prone to believing the same as Lionsbury and Dowrick? That the ancient dead are deciding our fate from beyond the grave?”
Goran spun a table knife on its edge like a spinning top. “Let us say I have come to believe they are guiding many hands in many different ways.”
“Then let us pray the hands of our glorious dead guide the right King to his seat upon the throne, or those of us still living will have to accomplish the task without their help.” He set down his greasy napkin in a scrumpled heap on the table, using it to flick at loose crumbs before continuing speaking.
“Let us say farewell here,” he said. “I return to Avidene for important business, the least of which is to confirm Lord D
elcarden’s untimely passing. We are all looking forward to High Priest Worlaw taking his seat on the Triumvirate.”
“That’s a pity, Father. Avidene is but a few days travel. You will miss the games and entertainment.”
“Yes, well. I can have more than my fill of exotic amusements when I return.” He gulped a final cup of wine. “Give my love to Dominique and remember what we have said.” He leaned close and spoke into Goran’s ear. “The tide is changing and the water will soon turn red. Choose wisely and it will not be our own spillage that gives it color.”
Goran smiled smoothly, betraying none of the anger that hung in the air like an invisible dagger pointing toward his father’s heart.
Chapter 5
Insults and Bruises
Simon was pleased to finally meet Lord Baerston Mor when he joined the Evermeres at their common table for the afternoon meal. His Lordship seemed as good natured as his sons, without pompous airs or demeaning words, and treating all around him the same no matter if freeman or slave. After the demonic deceptions of Lord Fromund, Simon was grateful to be sharing a warm and generous meal with such a kindhearted noble who treated him no differently than their own.
“I’m honored to serve your family, Lord Baerston Mor. Marcus will be a great and deserving King. I don’t see how the Holy Seer and the Council can choose any other in this hall.”
“Well, thank you, Simon. Our family is confident he will be chosen no matter what the present difficulties may bring. He is the only one striving for harmony among our people and that is the only way we can defeat our common enemy and find peace for all.”
His Lordship placed a friendly hand upon Simon’s shoulder. “But Marcus and his brothers cannot accomplish this alone. We are grateful to you and Rachel for your trust and loyalty.” Rachel smiled demurely.
“As we are for your son’s, your Lordship,” she answered. “Now that he carries your family’s sword, I’m certain he can defeat any Choldath monster—as Lord Lionsbury did—if need be.”
Simon finished his cup of oddly bitter wine. “Of that I have no doubt, yet I only wish we could each possess such a powerful weapon.”
“And what exactly would you do with one, Blackfyre? Lead a slave rebellion? Or hack a chunk from a bread loaf to dip into your gruel?”
Simon turned around to be confronted by Callor’s snide face. Callor examined his clean fingernails, making a show of his nonchalance. “Why don’t you ask Marcus for his own sword?” Callor asked. “I’m sure he would be more than happy to help the oppressed lowborn by arming them so they could slit his own noble throat.”
Rachel pointed back toward the Tiberion table. “And why don’t you go back to where you belong? Didn’t your parents teach you it’s rude to ignore your friends?”
“Oh, is the freeman’s feisty daughter speaking out on behalf of the Evermeres? Letting the little wench sound like a highborn lady while you’re all having at her?”
He laughed and slapped Simon on the back. “I’d be careful though. You don’t want to end up like poor Robert over there. Not very regal-looking, now, is he?”
Rachel turned scarlet and jumped to her feet. “How dare you speak to me like that. I don’t care if you’re a lord, you can’t—”
Baerston Mor lurched forward and restrained her. “No. Miss Fallbrook. Please do not give him what he so desperately craves. Each of you hold your tongue and your hand.”
Protectors seated at the other tables looked their way and snickered among themselves. Marcus remained silent and exchanged a somber look with his father.
Lord Baerston Mor rose to face Callor. “The only person not conducting themselves in a manner befitting a sovereign, is you, my so regretfully selfish and immature young lord. The King’s Council sees it as clearly as any in this room—but then again, considering your lineage, none of that is surprising in the least.”
The Evermeres and their protectors broke out at once in raucous laughter. Marcus patted his father on the back. “Well said, Father. None could have done better.”
Callor turned redder than Rachel. He looked as if all his blood was seeking a means of escape but was trapped painfully behind his face. “You—you despicable slave lover. You’re a deep disgrace to our late King’s name.” He partially withdrew his family sword from the scabbard. “And your blood would deign to sit upon the throne?” He spat on the floor. “I’ll spill every last drop before the crown rests again on the head of an Evermere.”
“How fortunate then for all of us that you see fit by starting with their unarmed father. Is this yet another example of your regal manner on display for all to see?”
Marcus rose with his hand on the hilt of his family’s sword. “The only blood will be yours, Tiberion, if you should attempt to draw that blade.”
“Callor? Marcus? What are you two mischievous lads up to?” Lord Ronas Tiberion of Coranthium stepped forward and stood by his son. He glanced around the room and offered a light-hearted laugh as though there was nothing for anyone to be concerned about. “Now, now. Everyone take their seats and enjoy the feast while your peers are watching. There is time enough for sword practice tomorrow. Isn’t that right, Cormac?”
“For once, I can agree with you, Ronas. There is no reason to spoil a perfectly good meal before you leave, is there? And the evenings are for feasting and making merry, not for making feuds. I would ask you to join us but as you can see, the table is full.”
“Thank you for asking, Cormac,” Tiberion said. “And I have wanted to inquire, how was your visit to Avidene? I apologize I couldn’t treat you to the finest food and pleasures in the Capitol. I wanted to discuss our mutual interests but have been so very, very busy registering my new land acquisitions and slaves with the Council. It must be such a relief to never have to deal with all those petty officials and their ledgers, isn’t it?”
“Not all of us require so many estates and enslaved people to maintain them, in order to live comfortably.”
“Of course not, and I applaud you on your lofty moral principles although many on the Council are of the opinion it is better suited to a lowborn shopkeeper than a respected lord of the realm.”
“Then, on the point of what constitutes a respected lord of the realm, I regret we must also differ.”
“Oh my. Is there nothing we can see eye-to-eye on, my old friend? I see why you speak so highly of our tragically stricken Lord Delcarden.”
Lord Coranthium’s stony gray eyes narrowed on Simon and Rachel.
“Still, I shouldn’t be surprised considering you prefer the company of peasant girls and slaves to that of your own kind,” Coranthium said. “What would your great and courageous ancestor, Sibert Evermere, say, if he could see how you’ve reduced his once noble and wealthy bloodline to a pack of slave-loving paupers?”
A crash of pewter cups and plates was audible as Lord Baerston Mor threw himself at Lord Coranthium, knocking him backward on the floor. The Evermere patriarch descended upon the Tiberion, pinning the shorter man under his knees.
The other protectors seated at their tables erupted in cheers and cat-calls, all urging one lord or the other to retaliate with swift retribution for the insults. Lord Corathium struggled to break free as Baerston Mor raised his fist to strike him.
“Do something, Father,” Callor bellowed.
“I already have.” Lord Coranthium chuckled and spat out blood from his cut lip. “Well, Evermere? Are you man enough now to display your family’s regal manner for all to see?”
“No, Father.” Marcus grabbed his arm. “As much as he deserves it, don’t.”
Lord Evermere’s fist trembled in midair as if being held back by an unseen force.
“That will be more than enough entertainment for today, your Lordships.” Mr. Byrch stomped toward them through the broken dishes and overturned food. He pulled Lord Baerston Mor off Lord Coranthium. “Brawling is usually reserved for off-duty guards at the local alehouse. I can give you directions if you wish.”
“Mister Byrch,” Simon leapt from the table, his face enveloped in a broad grin. “Sir, when did they release you?”
“About an hour ago and not a moment too soon by the looks of it.” He looked down at the mashed and strewn food covering the floor. “Is there any of that roast boar left? They fed me mostly stale vegetables and I saved those for Shamus. It would be a sore shame if any roast pig should be rolling around here, beneath our feet.”
“Thank you, Mister Byrch,” Lord Coranthium said as he touched his cut lip and examined the blood on his fingers. “Thank you for coming to my aid. It seems Lord Baerston Mor and I had a slight misunderstanding. With all this deafening noise and chatter he misheard my telling of a ribald joke as somehow being an insult to his distinguished family’s honor. Isn’t that right, Cormac? Both are completely unrelated, I assure you.”
Lord Baerston Mor straightened his attire, dusting down his frock coat. “As you say, Ronas. Sometimes it is impossible to hear the truth of a man’s word when there are so many distracting voices competing for attention. Please accept my humble apologies.”
Lord Coranthium’s eyes glittered with malice. “Accepted. Now gentlemen if you will excuse me, but I am afraid I will have to forgo the evening’s entertainment and if you will allow me, I wish to speak to my son in private before I depart.” He beckoned Callor and swept him out of the hall.
“You shouldn’t let him get your rancor up like that, my lord.” Byrch looked back at Lord Lionsbury speaking with Lady Bellemar on the dais. “I’ll explain it to his Lordship exactly the way you said and hopefully that will be the end of it but Lord Coranthium is another matter. He has many powerful allies behind these walls as he does in Avidene.”
“I will take your advice, Mister Byrch, and apologize for my embarrassing outburst.”
Byrch handed him a cloth to wipe his face. “Truth is, I’m surprised you didn’t pummel the bastard when you had the chance. Next time, he won’t be so lucky.”
