After he had dined Morgan retired to a small room overlooking the courtyard and the east wall. It was lit by fiery torches, the sun having long since sunk into darkness. The keep, the courtyard, the castle walls, the town itself and then the city walls. This had been his world since leaving the elves and hearing of the burdensome honour Felmere had placed upon him in death. Dominic was with him and young Kraven sat quietly in a corner not saying a word. Dominic was clad in riding leather, having forsaken his armour, and his boots were caked in mud; he had after all just returned from the field where he had been journeying for some days. It was he who was speaking now.
‘Fenchard has finally taken Athkaril. The rioters had formed some sort of collective army and it was they who destroyed the bridge and who, by using a storm of missiles, thwarted his initial attempts to rebuild it. Finally, though, under mantlets and shields it was rebuilt, and the rioters, fearing his wrath, fled west. Fenchard though has inherited little more than a city of cinders. And the Grand Duke is on his way; I wonder if he knows that?’
‘He will soon enough, I am sure. No matter what happens there, he is still in a very strong position. It is only here and nearby towns such as Shayer Ridge that he doesn’t control in the north and, with Garal rebelling in the south, Esric will be too busy to send aid. All we have are the men within this city and the elves until the Grand Duke gets here. I assume he will be taking over operations from me when he arrives.’
Dominic laughed. ‘I wouldn’t count on it. I am led to believe he plans to take Athkaril and stay there until spring. He is no field general and by all accounts compensates for his lack of experience by being very, very cautious. I can’t see him wanting to impose his authority over you for a while yet. You can’t get out of this that easily.’
‘Worth a try though, wasn’t it? When he arrives maybe a two-pronged attack on Tetha Vinoyen will be a good idea. The only problem is that Fenchard, and particularly Trask, will see that coming from leagues away.’
‘And will try to forestall it, by attacking here or by attacking the Grand Duke, before we attack him.’
‘Well, if he attacks us, he will have to be prepared for a siege. And the longer that takes, the greater the chance of Leontius marching on his rear. As ever in this war, we seem to have another stalemate.’ Morgan looked thoughtful. ‘Actually, it may even be a good idea to invite him to attack us; while he is here he cannot damage anywhere else and he will have to split his forces between here and Tetha Vinoyen. If Leontius can take the town, we have a great chance of retaking all the ground that Wolf Plain cost us.’
‘And Fenchard will no longer be of use to the Arshuman king. It would be interesting to see what happens to him then.’
‘Yes, it would, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The situation in Athkaril is interesting but we cannot affect it either way from here. For now it is still a case of building up our army and raiding their supply lines, something the elves are happy to do. Find this interesting, Kraven?’
‘Of course, sir.’ Kraven spoke with little conviction, stifling a yawn as he did so.
They left the room and entered a wide hallway busy with servants, scullions and cleaning maids, busy carrying pewter plates and goblets from the dining room or sweeping dust off the faded carpet into the room’s darker corners. A series of portraits looked down on them as they strolled towards the throne room, Felmeres from centuries past. Cedric was there looking at them. He leaned stiffly on his walking stick as Morgan came up to him.
‘It is sad to see him here on the wall, now a man of the past just as all the others are.’ Cedric was staring at the portrait of Lukas, looking as belligerent on canvas as he could in life. ‘Notice the changes in art style over the years. Some two centuries ago everyone looked the same; see the oval faces and high foreheads on them, idealised representations all. Today, of course, realism is everything as with Baron Lukas here.’
‘And with our family portrait over there,’ said Dominic.
‘What!’ said Cedric. ‘There is a painting of you here?’
‘The entire family. I am related to the Felmeres by marriage; it was a gift for the wedding, well, one of them. I suppose, Morgan, we are technically related now – any plans to sit for a portrait in the near future?’
‘I would rather yank all my teeth out with a hot iron,’ said Morgan, not cracking a smile, ‘Portraits indeed!’
‘Morgan,’ Cedric called, with a degree of suppressed excitement. ‘Come over here.’
Morgan did so and found Cedric looking at the Hartfield portrait. He was pointing at one of the figures. ‘Recognise anyone?’ he asked.
Morgan looked at the painting. On its right side were a distinguished-looking couple clad in expensive finery who Morgan guessed was Nicholas Hartfield and his wife. Dominic was standing next to him with a lady who had to be his betrothed sitting on a divan just to his left. Then, all seated, were three young women: two handsome girls with slightly chubby features were next to each other, definitely sisters; then, slightly apart from the two of them, was another girl, brown-haired, thin, freckled and clad in a beautiful dress of red silk with an exquisite green emerald brooch pinned to her breast. The brooch struck a chord with him. He had seen it before, but where...?’
‘The elves.’ said Cedric. ‘Terath’s lake – the vision in the water?’
‘By all the Gods,’ said Morgan softly. ‘A coincidence, surely?’
‘A brooch like that? A slight, dark-haired girl? I am good with faces and I am certain it must be the same girl.’
‘What is it?’ Dominic joined them. ‘Admiring my little sister? Too late for you I am afraid. She married some months ago. A northern baron, from Osperitsan island. That is good, she likes the sea’
‘Close to the elven ruins?’ asked Cedric.
‘Yes, why do you ask? Why is little Ceriana so important?’
Cedric put his arm around Dominic’s shoulder. ‘This will take some explaining, but right now your little sister might be one of the most important people in Tanaren...’
4
Cheris stood alone in the small square room. Its four walls were of naked stone and its only light came from a small grille less than a foot square high in the west wall, through which flowed a chill winter draught. Behind her the iron-bound door was locked, something she had checked three times just to be sure. In front of her was a tin bath full of steaming water freshly filled by the chambermaid. A chair stood next to it covered in towelling cloths and a tablet of fat soap. The girl had prepared everything beautifully. Cheris looked at the tub and sighed.
She had travelled with Cedric, Dominic and Morgan to Felmere. The town itself was smaller than Tanaren City but a lot more stone had been used in the construction of its buildings, giving it an austere but more durable air. There was something reassuring about the place, a sense that whatever happened outside its walls didn’t matter. This city was indefatigable, permanent, immune to war and its travails.
The castle and keep epitomised this feeling of security; everything was bound in iron, stone and wood inches or feet thick. The flagstones were smooth, massive and greened at their edges; the doors were studded with metal and frequently panelled with leather, and the gated portcullis was protected by arrow slits and murder holes.
From the high tower of the keep flew the blue-and-white flag of Tanaren and the mace of the House of Felmere, something that could be seen from many miles around – another statement of the Felmeres’ hegemony – and it was in the keep that Cheris was now standing, not in its tower but in a small room in the western wing, next to the private room she had been granted. The room was sumptuous compared to what she had been used to – a wide bed with a feather-down mattress, carpets, a sofa that was even more comfortable than the bed; she was being treated like a princess. The lady of the castle had even gifted her some dresses, crushed velvet, pearls, sleeves and collars trimmed with lace or fur. She had yet to wear any of them; she just felt so undeserving.
What tr
oubled her the most, though, was the utter freedom she had been given. Morgan and the other men had been too busy to notice her, and the women of the castle, knowing what she was, kept a wide berth. There were no Knights of the Thorn here, so she could not be policed as the law stated, and Morgan seemed to have no interest in organising some sort of replacement for them. For the first and probably only time in her life she was being treated like a normal person.
And that was why she hardly ever left her room.
She had a maid, a beautiful room, expensive dresses, she could go into the town, talk to anyone, do whatever she wanted and she had no idea how to deal with any of it. She had heard tales of caged birds fed and looked after all their lives whose owners had died. Their cages had been opened to give them their freedom – they could fly free whenever and wherever they desired – and yet none of them did. They stayed in the cage, with the security they understood and felt safe with. And if somebody caught a bird and tried to lift it to the sky, it would die, terrified by the enormity of what it was being offered. Freedom could be just as much of a prison as a cage.
She did not really know anyone here either. Now more than at any other time she realised how much she had depended on Marcus; he had guided her in most things for over half her life and with every passing day she missed him more and more. She was lonely here, was not sure whom to confide in and yet she needed to talk to somebody badly.
She had hoped the memory of her assault by Trask would slowly diminish but her hopes regarding this had been in vain. Every night she would wake up screaming, her sheets soaked with sweat. Every quiet moment she had in the day, and there were many, she smelt him, felt his hands on her, his overbearing strength crushing her remorselessly. And as she stood looking at her bath, it was coming back to her again. As if coming out of a dream she shook her head briskly and spoke, though no one else could hear her.
‘Snap out of it, girl. Carry on like this and he will beat you. He mustn’t beat you.’ She undressed swiftly and climbed into the bath without testing the water; it was hot but it barely registered with her. She pulled her knees up to her chin as if trying to hide herself, grabbed the soap and started to wash herself vigorously. Too vigorously, it seemed, for she was rubbing herself raw. ‘Must ... clean ... myself,’ she repeated over and over again and once every part of her body had been cleaned she started again. Her face reddened, not just from the steam, and her eyes started to water. At last she over-exerted herself and the soap slipped from her hands, skipping over the stone floor. She watched it go and slapped the water in frustration, sending suds flying everywhere. It was the last straw for her. A loud racking sob escaped her and she buried her head on her knees and started to cry. This time she had no control over her tears: her sobs grew louder and more hysterical as the seconds passed. Seconds became minutes and still she wept. Her lungs hurt her as she howled again and again and again – beyond consolation, beyond redemption, beyond salvation. She was in the darkest place she had ever been and escape seemed hopeless to her.
Finally, she exhausted herself and her crying ceased; she had nothing else to give. Thus drained, she climbed out of the bath, dried and dressed herself as quickly as she could, unlocked the door and went back to her room, her eyes as red as ripe berries.
She fancied lying on the bed for a little while but before she could get there something rubbed against her ankles, something warm. Looking down she saw a small cat, black with a couple of white splashes. It rubbed against her again and started to purr, a soothing contented purr.
Cheris gazed at it uncomprehendingly. It seemed to take her a while before she saw exactly what it was. For the first time in an age she smiled, only slightly but significantly. She knelt alongside the cat and started to tickle it under the chin.
‘You are a little girl, I see, and a pretty one, too. What shall I call you? Not Cheris, that’s a horrible name; how about Marta? Or Rosamund? That’s it – Rosamund. It’s a bit grand for a little scrap like you but you will grow into it. Are you hungry? In a minute or two I will see if there are any leftovers for you in the kitchens. There is just one thing I want to do first.’
Cradling the wriggling creature in her left arm, she went over to her trunk which sat next to the bed. It had been mostly emptied but there was one thing still in there she wanted. She tipped it open with her foot and, gently placing the cat on the bed, she lifted out a book.
‘No, Rosamund, he will not beat me, not while I still breathe.’
It was Anaya’s book, Shtia Demontia Nenneven Azhatrneko. She had not spared it a glance since taking it with her in the forest but now she sat on the bed, slowly opened its cover, bound as it was in a vellum she was not familiar with, and with a sigh heavy enough to cause snow to fall down a mountain side started to read.
The keep held a small library high in the main tower. It was poorly lit and rarely used. Dust lay heavy on its shelves and until recently its floor had been little swept. The arrival of Cedric had prompted the keep’s servants to make a half-hearted attempt up there and triangular piles of neatly swept dirt had been carefully deposited in the room’s darker corners. Cedric was up there now. After sighting the painting he had wondered if anything helpful regarding elven lore might be found somewhere in the library’s recesses. Unsurprisingly, he was to be disappointed and now sat shoulders hunched at a candlelit table absently turning the pages of a book he had no interest in whatsoever. Dominic had been shocked by what they had told him about the portrait and the straits his sister might be in. So much so that he had despatched a messenger that very day with a letter to her, saying that help might still be available and to hang on until either he or Terath could get to her. The messenger had a long and dangerous journey, through enemy territory, over rivers and then to Tanaren City and the sea, a service for which, if discharged appropriately, he would be handsomely rewarded.
Cedric grumbled testily at himself. He was only, after all, putting off having to walk back down a lengthy flight of uneven stairs in faltering light to get back to his room. Eventually he decided to face the inevitable and started to ease himself off the chair with his stick when the door creaked open and in walked Astania, the slight elf girl who had become something of a nurse to him.
The last few weeks had been something of a culture shock to the girl. The youngest of her people to make the journey from her homeland, she was the only one to travel to Felmere at Itheya’s request, primarily to assist Cedric. The wood and stone, the smells and sounds of the city and its castle had frightened her a little and, like Cheris, she was feeling rather alone in a place she felt was curiously devoid of feeling. When she had first arrived she had donned the short tunic that was common garb back home, only to draw incredulous and/or lascivious stares from everyone who saw her. She had changed back into her riding clothes and cloak very quickly after that and tended to flit around the castle so quickly and noiselessly that she was now referred to as ‘the ghost’ by some. Still, on the brighter side, her understanding of the humans’ language had improved exponentially and she felt a lot more confident in using this strange tongue.
‘I have found you at last,’ she said in a voice as slight as her frame. ‘Do you need me to use some power on you? You normally require some aid in the evening when your joints stiffen.’
‘Not just yet thank you,’ Cedric replied briskly. ‘I am feeling well at the moment.’
‘That is good,’ she said, and turned to leave.
‘No, Astania, wait just a second. Please take a seat – there is something I want to say to you.’
Silently she did as he requested, her face curious.
‘I have wanted to apologise for a while. Because of me you have been torn from your people and forced to live among strangers, strangers of a completely different race. It must be very difficult for you, so I just would like to say if there is anything I can do to help you here ... well, you only have to ask.’
‘I am fine,’ she replied, a little untruthfully. ‘It is not your fault
you were unable to travel south with Terath. I believe it is a long journey, and difficult on horseback.’
He gave a resigned sigh. ‘You speak truthfully, I fear. I was feeling rather unwell travelling through the pass and was dreading a further long journey.’ He held out a trembling arm. ‘As you can see, it is only getting worse and it could well be I have only one more journey left in me, the long road back to Tanaren, our capital, if indeed that route ever becomes clear of enemies. At least, I can say proudly that I have helped to forge an alliance with your noble people, and that indeed all of the tribes of Seyavanion have joined our endeavours.’
‘Yes, Cedric, and I am pleased we are joined here south of the mountains. You are not quite correct, though – not all of the tribes are with us. Some would never fight for you, for they dislike us almost as much as humans.’
Cedric raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought all the associates of the Morioka and the Ometahan had sent at least a few warriors.’
She faced him across the table, her sharp features exaggerated in the candlelight.’ Not every tribe are associated with us or Culleneron’s people. The very thought would fill them with anger.’
Cedric’s curiosity was piqued. ‘Please, tell me more.’
‘Seyavanion is a large realm. As you know, our two tribes dominate the main forest and all other tribes have bonds, either weak or strong, with those tribes. But there are other parts of the forest, its dark fringes. Where the mountains cut across the forest in the east there is a great valley. Its sides are sheer and impassable and within that valley much of the land is actually beneath the level of the sea. It is cloaked in thick woodland and is permanently coated in mist that rises from the valley floor.’
Cedric leaned forward a little. ‘And tribes actually live there?’
Astania nodded. ‘As Terath has told me, these tribes had lived in this forest for many, many years before our arrival. We are a plains people and even now the forest is not a natural home for us. When we first chose exile in Seyavanion the tribes that were there, the Obrosh and the Kesta, did not wish to accommodate us, though space was plentiful. They attacked us and were driven off, and so moved their entire tribes into this valley. Since that time we have communicated little and it is probably fair to say we see humans more often than we see them.’
The Forgotten War Page 84
