by K. C. Julius
As he slouched against the cold stone, Whit tried to ignore the grinding of the sin-eater’s jaws as the wretch worked through his tainted meal. The marble visages of Blearc, the Lord of the Heavens, Styra, goddess of the Earth, Dylar, divinity of Fire, Alithin of Air, and Ursaline of the Waters stared down at him from their plinths—the Elementa, guardians of Drinnglennin. Unlike his parents, Whit had little interest in theology—appeasing the gods with prayer seemed to take far too much time for too little reward. His religion was knowledge, and his weapon of choice, the magical arts.
He wished he were back in the solarium now, where he had been learning how to make groth, a healing elixir used in the treatment of ague. He sought distraction from the sin-eater by recalling its ingredients: ginger, garlic, cannabis, poppy, blood flower, tansy, hyssop, alfalfa, catnip, sage, burdock, and feverfew. He then reviewed the herbs and plants most effective for burns: leppa, ohra, chervil, common comfrey, daffodil, larch, leek, lily, thyme, and wild lettuce. As the rain railed against the roof above, he wondered glumly if there was a medicinal cure for boredom.
The sin-eater polished off the venison and moved on to the roast boar. The man was certainly quick about it; Whit would give him that.
A flicker of movement drew Whit’s gaze to the vaulted ceiling, in shadow this dark day. Perhaps a wren had found its way through one of the narrow apertures, along with the chill air.
There it was again—a dark flutter, and then another. The shapes shifted and merged into a dark cloud before Whit realized that a host of black-feathered birds were pouring into the prayer hall, the beating of their wings muted by the hammering rain as they circled in scores around the vaulted dome.
Whit looked to see if the sin-eater had also noticed the cyclone of crows, but the man was intently gnawing on a hunk of cheese, bread crumbs strewn across his tunic and spilling into the casket. It was only when the sin-eater tipped the last of the ale down his gullet that he caught sight of the whirling horde. A silent scream contorted his face as he bolted off his stool, tipping it over backward. In his frenzy to escape, he upended the board as well, pitching the ravaged platters to the stone floor.
As if on cue, the crows dove, and a black stream of frenzied wings followed the fleeing man out of the hall, like venomous darts in his wake.
As suddenly as they’d appeared, the birds were gone—except for one that hopped across the flagstones, pecking at scattered crumbs amid the shattered crockery. It stopped to tilt its head and eye Whit curiously. He stared back at it, dazed by the bizarre turn of events. As the bird’s bill tapped across the fallen plank, he realized the rain had stopped.
The crow fluttered up to perch on the edge of Lord Jaxe’s coffin, and Whit flailed his arms at it. It gave a raucous caw before flitting from the hall after the others.
Whit trailed after the bird to the courtyard. He saw no sign of the sin-eater, but he spotted the flock of crows wheeling off to the west under ominous clouds. After hailing a passing servant to see to the disarray in the prayer hall, he started for the solarium, pondering what he’d just witnessed.
He had always regretted that a crow, rather than a magical creature, was the heraldic symbol of Cardenstowe, until he’d learned something remarkable about them. The previous spring he and Cortenus had come across a single one of these birds, bobbing and cawing noisily from a birch tree, seemingly at a farmer working his field.
“A crow never forgets the face of a friend or a foe,” his tutor explained, “and will tell other crows when he sees either again. From this bird’s calls, I would hazard to guess the farmer has caused him harm. Perhaps the fellow killed its mate or brother. They live together in extended families, you know, and are the most intelligent of all birds.”
Whit had been inclined to scoff at this. “Surely the bird doesn’t recognize that man!”
Cortenus rubbed his bald head thoughtfully. “Shall we put it to the test?” he asked, as he so often did. Without waiting for Whit’s reply, he reached into his pocket and tossed a handful of seeds to the ground. The two of them then retreated and waited until the crow flew down to eat them.
They returned to the same place for several days, making sure to cowl their heads so that their faces couldn’t be seen. Each day, the crow was there and ignored them as they walked past the farmer’s fields. Then, after a week of this, they appeared by the field without their cowls—and the bird immediately cawed three times and fluttered to their feet, fixing Cortenus expectantly with its bright black eyes.
Whit laughed in astonishment, for it was clear the bird recognized his benefactor.
He wondered now what might have drawn the birds into the prayer hall. Had the sin-eater transgressed against them on his way to Cardenstowe?
It was only when he gained the stairs leading to his rooms that he realized the blasted sin-eater hadn’t said whatever words were necessary. He’d fled with a full stomach, leaving Lord Jaxe’s soul unshriven.
Whit groaned; he supposed he’d have to report this to his mother.
He grudgingly made his way to Lady Rhea’s apartments. As he raised his hand to scratch on her door, it swung open, and he stepped quickly aside to avoid being bowled over by Gastineau, his mother’s portly steward.
“Oh, by Blearc’s beard!” the big man cried, clutching his heart dramatically. “You gave me the fright of my life, young master!” Then he gasped and swept into an extravagant bow. “Forgive me, my lord, I forget I am addressing the lord of Cardenstowe. My most humble apologies!”
Whit found Gastineau’s nervous giggles and penchant for histrionics entirely irritating. His feelings must have shown on his face, for the man cast him a wounded look, which he ignored as he brushed past the steward into his mother’s chambers.
Lady Rhea was with several of her women, their hands clasped in communal prayer. Her skin, always pale, looked translucent in the flickering light of the blazing fire, and dark circles shadowed her eyes. As Whit strode toward her, her companions rose and fell into deep curtseys before slipping silently past him to follow Gastineau out the door.
Lady Rhea stretched out her hands, and he felt her fingers tremble under his. “Mother,” he said, kissing her cheeks, “are you unwell?”
She inclined her head toward a chair opposite hers. Her beautiful golden hair was hidden by a snowy veil. Custom dictated that a mourning wife should dress in white for one year, but Whit doubted he’d ever see her wearing anything else again.
“I am in as good health as can be expected,” she replied once he was seated. “How goes it with you, my son? Have all our vassals made their proclamations of allegiance to you?”
Whit nodded, remembering with some discomfort the line of nobles kneeling one by one before him, declaring their loyalty to their new lord, as he sat on his father’s high seat. “All but Sir Alson,” he amended, “who’s said to be away on an errand for you.” He raised his brows in the hope that she might enlighten him further.
“Ah, yes,” said his mother, noncommittally. “Shall I ring for refreshment?” Her slender hand hovered over the servant’s bell.
Whit recalled what he’d come to report. “Not for me. I’ve just come from watching the sin-eater, and it’s quite robbed me of appetite.”
Lady Rhea clasped her hands together and whispered a fierce prayer. Then sitting back, she said, “Thank all the gods it is done. Your father’s soul may rest in peace across the Abyss.”
“Actually—”
Whit was interrupted by a sharp rap on the chamber door. After his mother voiced her permission to enter, three knights burst into the room.
“Apologies, my lord, my lady,” said Sir Hulton, his swift bow exposing the balding spot on his greying pate. Behind him, Sir Wren and Sir Gablyn rose from their own salutes, their damp cloaks steaming in the heat. There was a manner of great urgency about them that brought Whit to his feet, for their mud-spattered boots and leggings
implied hard riding.
“What has happened now?” cried Lady Rhea as she too rose, her book of prayers tumbling unheeded off her lap.
“There’s been an attack on several of our crofters,” Sir Hulton said. “We came upon their burned-out farms as we rode border patrol these past days. The ill-fated folk were set upon sometime in the past week, and none survived. Unfortunately, all the rain has made tracking those responsible challenging.”
“Who would do such a thing? In Cardenstowe?” Lady Rhea reached out for Whit’s hand. “Oh, if only your father were here!”
Whit felt a flash of impatience, but turned to the men. “Do you have any idea who attacked the crofters?”
The knights exchanged uneasy glances.
“You have some suspicions, I see,” said Whit tersely. “Out with them then. We must see that whoever did this is brought to account for this treachery.”
Sir Hulton ran his hand over his worn face. “The crofts that were burned are in the southwest, my lord, along our border with Karan-Rhad. It’s a sparsely populated part of the realm.”
Whit and his mother exchanged a surprised glance. “We’ve no quarrel with Lord Brock,” said Whit. “He was my father’s guest here just this past summer for a hunting party.”
“Whoever did this was unlikely to have come from Karan-Rhad, my lord,” said Sir Wren. “The victims were… marked.” He reached into his jerkin and pulled out a dirty rag. “And we found this nailed to a tree, from which hung the body of a young girl.” His lips tightened at the memory as he unfurled the cloth to expose the symbol emblazoned across it.
“Gods preserve us!” cried Lady Rhea, and Whit’s throat went suddenly dry.
The remnant bore an eye engulfed in flames—the standard of Drinnglennin’s most bitter and feared enemies.
The Helgrins.
Chapter 23
The ensuing hours produced a flurry of activity as the highest nobles of Cardenstowe were called upon to offer their young lord counsel. It was fortunate they had come to attend the funeral of his late father, and to swear their allegiance to Whit. When at last all were gathered in the west hall, the winter’s day was fading to dusk. Lady Rhea, who never concerned herself with matters of governance, did not attend the conclave, and so it was that Whit found himself sitting at the head of the oaken table facing his most eminent vassals. Cortenus, at Whit’s insistence, was also present, for Whit valued the man’s astute mind over all others.
“I say we take a troop of men-at-arms and hunt the Helgrin dogs down!” proclaimed Sir Nidden, his mottled faced suffused with choler. He was the oldest of the knights, and a seasoned veteran of war. It was rumored he possessed all manner of grisly trophies from his soldiering years, including the desiccated head of a Helgrin warrior, clawed war helm and all.
“Where do you propose to find them?” asked Sir Glewston testily. “They passed through our lands at least a week ago. Surely they made for the coast and have set sail for home by now.” He sat back in his chair, glowering at Nidden. “There’s no point in sending a force after them. We should look instead to providing armed security for the peasants, should the Helgrins return. If not,” he said, shifting his heavy gaze to Whit, “we’ll have every one of them clamoring for succor at our gates, especially here at Cardenstowe.”
“Isn’t it a lord’s duty to provide safe haven for his crofters?” protested Sir Wren. He was the youngest of the knights at the table, having succeeded only two years prior to his position as Lord of Elthing, a holding in Cardenstowe’s northern territory. “Those on my lands will always find protection within our castle walls in times of trial.”
Glewston didn’t bother hide his skepticism. “Even if those times stretch into months and years? And who will be tending to your crops while the rabble devours your stores?”
Whit felt a subtle nudge against his foot. Cortenus’s benevolent gaze rested on him briefly before shifting to a tapestry hanging on the wall. Clearly his tutor wanted him to speak up, but Whit was keenly aware he was out of his depth. He was no strategist, except with regard to chatraj, a board game of war at which he was a master.
Fortunately, Sir Hulton restored some order to the debate. “Gentlemen, our charge is to advise Lord Whit, not to bicker like harridans.” The men fell into disgruntled silence, and Hulton turned to Whit. “My lord, it seems we have two choices. Either we send out a party of knights to try and track the assailants, which seems unlikely to succeed at this late pass, or we take precautionary measures should the Helgrins return.”
“In any event,” Sir Glewston chimed in, “Drinnkastel must be informed. This is a matter for the High King to avenge, as an invasion on the realm at large.”
“What? That’ll take days! Weeks!” Nidden protested, his face darkening to purple. “This is an attack on our lands, our people! Cardenstowe has the right to answer it!”
“But an attack by whom?”
The question did not come from the table, and several of the knights clasped the hilts of their swords as a cloaked figure emerged from behind a column.
“Stay your blades, good sirs,” the intruder said mildly, raising his empty hands. “I wish only to add my counsel to yours.”
“Who are you to enter uninvited and unannounced into this conclave?” demanded Sir Trent.
Sir Nidden laughed unpleasantly. “I know who he is,” he said, and Whit was surprised by the scorn in his voice. “Although it’s been many years since we last crossed paths. How far the mighty have fallen, eh, Master Morgan?”
“Master Morgan?” echoed Whit. “The Master Morgan? The greatest wizard who ever lived?”
“If that were true, he’d still be on the Tribus,” remarked Sir Gablyn dryly. “I believe, Master Morgan, you were dismissed from that sage body after you were fool enough to—”
“Mind your tongue, sir,” growled Sir Glewston, “and show due respect. During his time on the council, Master Morgan served the realm honorably, at least until—”
The wizard smoothly cut him off. “I declined the fanfare of trumpets offered just now to announce my presence, but I am here by Lady Rhea’s invitation. By your leave, my lord?” he said to Whit, gesturing to an empty place at the table.
“By all means, Master Wizard,” said Whit eagerly, for here was someone who greatly interested him. Few might remember Master Morgan these days, but Whit had read much about his legendary magical virtuosity.
“My lord!” protested Sir Glewston. “Is it wise to include an outsider in our council?”
Cortenus spoke for the first time. “If we’re seeking wisdom, we will find no finer mind in all of Drinnglennin than that of Master Morgan.”
The wizard bowed his head in acknowledgement of the compliment. He took his place with a benign expression on his weathered face.
“Well, then,” grumbled Sir Nidden, “what say you, wizard? Do we redress this grievous treachery with our own force or huddle in our homes like craven fools waiting for the Helgrins to return to do it again?”
“It’s not foolish to practice prudence, Nidden!” insisted Sir Glewston.
While the two knights scowled at one another, Master Morgan cleared his throat. “If I may repeat my question: By whom was Cardenstowe attacked?”
Sir Hulton pointed to the soiled cloth on the table. “See for yourself, master.”
The wizard spread the cloth before him. “I see the emblem of the Helgrins. But now I must ask, is this enough evidence to determine that the attack was carried out by them?”
“Of course it is!” Sir Nidden bellowed. “Why else leave their standard?”
“The bodies were mutilated in typical Helgrin fashion,” said Sir Wren grimly. “Their thumbs were hacked off, even the… babes. And we found a broadaxe inscribed with Helgrin runes driven into the door of one of the burning crofts.”
“I see,” said Master Morgan. He assumed a pensiv
e air while the others sat in puzzled silence. Finally, turning to the bald knight across the table, he said, “Sir Nidden, how many Helgrin axes do you have at Dinstone?”
“One for every ten I killed in battle!” Sir Nidden boasted.
“Exactly,” said the wizard. “I don’t imagine there’s a castle in all the land that isn’t decorated with the booty of Helgrin arms from the days of the Long War.”
“What are you implying?” Sir Hulton said.
But Whit was already ahead of his knights. “You think that whoever attacked those crofters wants us to believe it was the Helgrins, don’t you, Master Morgan?”
“But what about the maiming?” protested Sir Nidden.
“Well, my good knight,” said Master Morgan, “if you wanted to implicate the Helgrins, wouldn’t imitating their methods of warfare seem a good idea?”
Sir Nidden frowned thoughtfully.
“Let’s examine the facts,” the wizard said. “Helgrins are seafaring warriors. They’ve attacked Drinnglennin many times in the past, always through raids launched on our coastal towns. Until now, they’ve been content to plunder prosperous manors, killing the men and taking the women and children as slaves. This attack on an inland village—without riches to offer, and with no captives seized—doesn’t make sense. The only advantage to the choice of target was that the peasants were unarmed, and so all perished.”
“No witnesses,” said Whit.
A dense silence fell.
“But if not the Helgrins, then who?” asked Sir Olin.
“I don’t know for certain,” said the wizard, “but I have an idea.” He sat back and surveyed the knights. “Who would stand to benefit if Cardenstowe’s most able fighters rode off on a wild goose chase to avenge these crofters, leaving her other boundaries less protected? And who would be the first called on to defend the realm and gain accolades if the High King declared war on the Helgrins?”
