by Ellyn, Court
“I have thought!” Laral shouted, startling the warhorse.
“With your head or with something else?”
“I promised, all right? If she’s forgotten about me and refuses, at least I will have kept my word.”
“To a Fieran?”
Laral’s face flushed hot. It must match Da’s in hue by now. “Bethyn, Da. Her name is Bethyn.” He didn’t need his father listing the possibilities; he had lain awake at night, sick with wondering. Was she ill? Was she dead? Had she grown impatient and married someone else? Did she burn his letters the instant they reached her? Had she received them at all?
“I don’t care if her name is Ana-Forah,” Lander retorted. “You will both be subject to scrutiny and insult, not to mention the fact that your loyalties will always be called into question.”
“I don’t care what anyone thinks.”
“That’s the problem, Laral! You don’t care. The rest of us must. I will take no pleasure in telling His Majesty that my heir married one of his enemies.”
“Then don’t tell him. I will tell him. And I’ll be damned if I hang my head or hide my face because the woman I love lives on the wrong side of the bloody river.”
“Hiding your face may be exactly what you find yourself doing. What if war breaks out? Who will you fight for? Will you break those vows you just took to protect king and country? Eh?”
“I won’t fight at all!”
“You won’t have that option, son.”
He saw the sense in his father’s tirade, but the last thing he meant to do was admit it aloud. He checked the cinches on his saddle for the tenth time, feeling all the while as if he faced a great storm and having no choice but to ride into it. If he didn’t, he would always wonder if … if. And what would his promises mean? “I can’t break my word,” he said and led the warhorse from the yard. Drys and Kalla hurried after him, dragging their own skittish mounts.
“I’ll revoke your inheritance,” Lander called after him, “give it all to your sister.”
“Fine! Do!” Laral shouted over his shoulder, though it felt like spitting glass to say it.
“If this Fieran turns you down, you’ll be outcast.”
Laral turned back at that. “Ruthan would never cast me out as you would. She still has a heart.”
“Laral?” The tiny voice came from the steps to the keep. Ruthan stood in the morning sunlight, fair hair shining like a ray of dawn, dark eyes large and sad. She carried a bundle half as large as she was as she descended the steps. “It’s going to be cold at night. And it’s going to rain.” Was it? The skies looked clear to him, but he knew better than to doubt her word. As much as he wanted to avoid the extra weight, he accepted the heavy woolen blanket. Ruthan flipped back a corner. Secreted inside the folds was a roughly stitched doll wearing a knight’s surcoat. “I charmed it,” she said. “It’s for luck.”
Laral descended to a knee and hugged her tight. Last night he’d been tempted to ask his sister if Bethyn would accept him, but Ruthan hadn’t peered into the future after Leshan died, not so much as to see which horses would win the races at Assembly. In any case, Bethyn’s refusal was certain if he didn’t go; it was best if he didn’t know anything beyond that. “Don’t let Da hurt himself, eh?”
Ruthan smiled, so much older and wiser than her ten years.
Laral tied the blanket behind his saddle, tucked the wee knight into his undershirt alongside the ash pouch she had embroidered for him, then climbed into the saddle.
Lord Lander mounted the steps to the keep so that his son had to ride out under his angry gaze.
“If I return alone, you can laugh in my face.”
“So help me, I will!” exclaimed Lander as his son put spurs to the warhorse’s flanks. “If you return. You’ll be lucky if you’re not run through as soon as you step across that bridge. You’ll never make it to Brengarra. Laral!”
He did not turn back. He’d break if he did. Drys and Kalla rode to each side of him, lending him courage.
The stones of the gatehouse still wore the scars of war. Gouges from trebuchet shot, black scorch marks from Dragon fire. Everything inside the curtain wall had been burned to cinders: keep, stables, artisans quarters, granaries, smithy, kennels, and gardens. Leshan had rebuilt them all, exact replicas of the originals. But for the newness of the stone and mortar, these buildings might have been standing for a thousand years.
Beyond the original gatehouse, construction continued. At the end of a straight road a quarter-mile long, a second gatehouse neared completion. The plans, written in Leshan’s own hand, called it Andett’s Bastion, after his mother; it dwarfed the inner gate in height and breadth, and boasted three iron portcullises that could be lowered in times of trouble. Extending to each side of the Bastion and encircling the old castle was a new wall so wide at the top that two supply wagons could pass each other without fighting for space. Seven fat towers studded this outer curtain. Rickety webs of scaffolding surrounded three of the new towers even now. Craftsmen scampered up and down the wooden beams as deftly as spiders, raising barrels of mortar and flats of stone.
The stone came from all over the Northwest. Dense red sandstone, torn from the Fieran fortress of Ulmarr, provided the foundation for Andett’s Bastion. More red stone topped the old inner towers, increasing their height by three stories, so that sentries could see over the outer wall. Clashing with the dull yellow-gray of the keep, this red stone caused the turrets to blaze like flame in the light of the setting sun.
Scaffolding hemmed in the marvel that was to be called Ruthan’s Skybridge. It connected one of the old curtain towers to the northernmost new tower. Laral’s Skybridge, its twin to the south, had been declared complete only a month ago. Laral had never seen anything like these bridges. They were so expansive that a column of cavalry, twenty riders abreast, could parade between the columns. They allowed the garrison to race straight from the barracks in the inner gatehouse to the outer curtain without having to descend one tower and climb another. The soldiers joked that one might serve Tírandon for years without once touching the ground.
Beyond the outer wall was not one moat but two. A drawbridge spanned the first, a permanent bridge the second, and between the two bodies of water stood the King’s Dike, a steep-sloped mound from which Tírandon’s defenders could make a stand. Men and women from across Tírandon’s lands had risen early this morning to resume digging on the outer moat. Winter rain and snow had filled the first one already, and groundwater wasn’t too deep here on the plain. Though the people were paid in coin and food for their labor, they also toiled willingly because the razing of Tírandon remained fresh in their nightmares.
Laral’s, too, though he hadn’t witnessed it.
After the peace talks when Lander finally returned home, he decided his oldest son had been mad indeed, going to these elaborate extremes, and called a halt to the construction. As ever, King Rhorek disagreed with him. “Let the building continue,” he’d said. “It was Leshan’s desire to make Tírandon unbreachable. Your fortress will be our greatest defense should war come again.”
Free of the crowds of laborers and craftsmen, Laral, Drys, and Kalla broke across open plain, scattering herds of sheep. When they were well away from the vast shadow of the walls and Lord Lander’s scrutiny, they slowed to a trot. “Do you really think your father will disinherit you?” Kalla asked. Her curls shone like strands of copper in the sunlight. She wore her hair in a sensible braid down her back. She wasn’t a vain woman; at least, she made no attempt to hide a heavy rash of freckles and ears that stuck out. Older than Laral and Drys, she’d been knighted the year before. She carried her sword easily. Laral had yet to grow accustomed to the weight of the new sword on his own belt. The training swords he’d practiced with had been made of wood, and no one wanted to look foolish by wearing a training sword. The real thing felt as cumbersome as a tail he’d grown in the night. He had asked his father to permit him to carry Contention as well, but Lander refused to p
art with the trophy he had won from the Warlord Goryth. The greatsword hung in a place of honor above the mantelpiece in the Great Hall, its moonstone gargoyle glimmering like a sulking ghost. The sword his father had commissioned for him was fine enough. Rough-cut sapphire onyx, and mother-of-pearl shaped Tírandon’s double chevron on the pommel. He told himself he would never draw it for an unjust cause, and upon its first bloodletting, he would name it Peacekeeper. He also knew better than to speak that promise in anyone’s hearing, because he doubted he would be able to keep it. On his right, he wore the diamond-studded dagger he’d won in the races at Assembly so many years ago. With it he had saved Queen Briéllyn from Zhiani mercenaries and defended Bethyn against his fellow squires. He had come to think of it as simply Guardian.
“Father is rash enough to disinherit me, aye,” he said, “then regret it ever after. It doesn’t matter.”
“But it does,” Kalla argued.
“What matters is that no one can disinherit Bethyn.”
“The White Falcon might. Does the Princess Regent have that power?”
“Oh, Goddess,” Drys groaned, “what a snake’s pit we’re wading in. Ki’eva scares the shit outta me. Those eyes … green and mean. Glad I am that she didn’t turn ‘em on me at the peace talks. I mighta shriveled up and died.”
Laral grinned down at his friend. Drys was head and shoulders shorter, but insisted he ride as tall a horse as any other knight. He had a special ladder-type stirrup that he lowered and tied up again when he rode. A comical pair the two of them had made, standing side by side on the dais to take their vows and accept their swords from Rhorek. At least the highborns thought so, snickering behind their hands at Laral’s height and young Lord Zeldanor’s lack of it. At the banquet afterward, Drys had felt the need to defend himself: “Aye, but you’re a scrawny shit. I’m twice as broad in the shoulders, and look at that fist, will ya? Solid granite. I could squash you flat, so mind yourself.” Laral knew his friend well enough to take the threat seriously.
“If Bethyn loses Brengarra, too,” Laral said, “we’ll come live at Zeldanor.”
“Don’t drag me into this.”
“You’re in so deep, you’re treading water.”
Drys’s chest puffed out. “You calling me short?”
“No, I’m calling you chicken. If you don’t ride across that bridge with me tomorrow—”
“You dare!” Drys balled his fist.
“I dare!” Laral shouted back.
“Boys!” Kalla looked to the heavens as if appealing to the Goddess. “Can we save the tree-pissing until after we cross into Fiera? Some moral support you are, Drys. And you.” She jabbed a finger at Laral. “Some attractive suitor you’ll make, beat all black and blue.”
Drys grinned and winked. “Thanks for the confidence in my prowess, Kalla.”
“Hnh, you’d look the same, but you’re not trying to impress anyone, so what do you matter?”
Drys deflated.
“Let’s just get to the bridge with our friendship intact, all right?” Kalla urged her warhorse to a canter. The boys followed in resentful silence.
Rather than risk fleas at the Twisted Oak Inn, they decided to camp under the eaves of Whitewood Forest. The next morning, they stuffed their telltale surcoats into their saddlebags and changed into civilians’ garb. Laral owned little more than squire’s livery with Ilswythe’s sword-wielding falcon on it, nor had there been time to have a wardrobe made, so he had dug into Leshan’s things. Heart-wrenching, sorting through the doublets, cloaks, and fine silk shirts; for some reason, it was sight of Leshan’s gloves that had brought the sob out of him. Wearing those gloves, the black leather worn and creased, Leshan had tried to build a new future. Sliding them on, Laral found that his fingers were longer than Leshan’s had been. His arms and legs, too, but lace cuffs and knee-high boots hid that fact. He only hoped that by the time he reached Brengarra, the velvet would smell less of moth balls.
That afternoon, they rode out of the trees and gazed upon the glistering silver expanse of the Brenlach. Those vast waters funneled through narrowing shores until they entered the banks of the River Bryna. On the opposite side of the wide, lazy current rose the imposing towers of Nathrachan. A green-and-white-striped banner flew over the roof of the keep.
“Somebody’s home,” Kalla said. Lord Nathrachan had died in the first engagement of the war, on Kelyn’s sword, no less. Whoever had inherited his domain was currently in residence. “We’re riding straight through, right?”
“Hell, yes, we’re not stopping here,” Drys said. “I hope to never see the inside of that place again.”
One of the stipulations for peace was that King Rhorek’s massive stone bridge remain unmolested. Gatehouses now studded both ends, each manned by twenty soldiers. In the center, where the Brother Realms officially divided, rose an arch without a door or portcullis.
The Aralorri guards greeted the young travelers with salutes and a warning: “Careful, if you mean to cross. It’s a bit cold at the other end today.” The guardhouse commander looked them over closely, noted their weapons, and nodded.
“You actually talk to the Fieran guards?” asked Kalla.
“Hurl insults mostly,” the commander replied with a dry grin. “Though on occasion, when we’re feeling friendly, we might trade a bottle of wine. Not today, though. Something crawled up their butts, and it’s likely orders from higher-ups to be less friendly to the enemy. Genius, I tell you. Way to incite another war, in my opinion, but you didn’t ask, did you? So who do we write in the books as crossed today?”
Laral told the commander who he and his friends were and the commander’s eyebrows jumped toward a receding hairline. “Right. Very well, m’ lords, m’ lady, another warning. If they attack you, we’re authorized to fight only if you’re wounded. And it will take mounds of paperwork to retrieve any bodies. Fine travels, then. G’day.”
“Mother’s tits, this girl better be worth it,” Drys said and clucked his horse onto the bridge and through the gate. Horseshoes echoed dully on the wooden planks. The stink of dead fish rose from the churning waters below. At the halfway point, they rode under the arch and the white falcon carved in the stone. Laral would feel happier when they passed back under the black falcon on the other side.
“Keep your hands away from your weapons,” Kalla said as they approached the Fieran gatehouse. A pair of guards in green livery crossed eight-foot-long pikes.
“Dismount,” one called.
The Aralorris obeyed and led their horses cautiously closer.
“You will pay the toll.” Noting their fine clothes, horses, and weapons, the guard added, “For you? Ten silvers a piece.”
Glowering, Laral asked, “And how much if we change into homespun and hide the horses back in the trees so you can’t see them?”
“Just pay him,” Kalla snapped.
Drys tossed Laral a clinking leather bag.
“That’s right,” said the sentry. “Listen to your little friends now.”
Biting his tongue, Laral counted out the thirty silvers, which left only seven in the bag. Damn, they would be camping the rest of the journey as well. Still, better to reach Brengarra stiff and sore from sleeping on the ground than itching with fleas.
The sentry’s fingers beckoned the highborn to come to him and deliver. Laral locked eyes with the man, stood his ground, held out the coins, and grinned. Like yowling tomcats, neither moved, both determined to force the other to defer.
Kalla nudged Laral in the ribs. Guileless, he told the sentry, “If you don’t want the silver, we can always swim across.”
“And drown,” the man sneered.
“We got across once before.”
The sentry bristled and leveled his pike. His companion did the same.
“What’s the trouble?” From the shadow under the gatehouse emerged the Fieran commander. He eyed the Aralorris’ weapons, found them sheathed, and ordered the two sentries to stand down. The butts of the pikes struc
k the planks, and the sentries snapped to attention.
With a shrug, Laral explained, “These fine fellas name their price, then decide they don’t want the silver after all.”
The commander eyed the pile of silver mounded in Laral’s palm. His mouth pursed. A glare slid toward the sentry. “We’ll talk about this later.” He took six coins off the top of the pile, fisted them, and said, “Follow me.” He led Laral and his companions between the disgruntled sentries, under the portcullis, and into the gatehouse tower. A sergeant lounged at a table, his feet propped up, boot heels resting on an open ledger.
His commander knocked him in the shins with his knuckles; the sergeant swore but straightened up in the chair. “What’s your business in Fiera?” the commander asked, handing a quill to Laral.
“I’m here to court a lady.” He wrote his name in the ledger.
The commander snorted. “That’s a new one.”
“Our ladies don’t want nothing to do with you, Aralorri,” said the sergeant.
Laral passed the quill to Drys. “You’re hardly one to speak for her.”
The sergeant opened his mouth for a retort, but the commander cleared his throat in a manner that suggested retribution if he dared speak again. When the Aralorris’ names were on the ledger and their toll in the lockbox, the commander waved them out. “Move along and stay out of trouble.”
Riding under Nathrachan’s walls, Drys glanced back at the bridge. “I was sorta hoping for a fight.”
