Reclaimer

by J. C. Staudt

  “You are precisely the sort of threat for which I gave away my youngest daughter, if you recall. Yet after the marriage was sealed, you sent mere footmen to fight for me in your stead. We struck a bargain. You failed to uphold your end. Imagine my surprise when your men-at-arms were recalled to Keep Ulther upon tidings of your treachery.”

  “So the rumors are true. Everything has been taken from me.”

  “Lands, titles, incomes, possessions… All of it.”

  Darion stood, though his shoulders were heavy with the weight of the news. “I know I could never make an apology sufficient to remedy my misdeeds.”

  Lord Mirrowell grunted. “Truer words I’ve not heard spoken the week long.”

  “If you wish me to fight for you against the ogre-kin who plague your lands, I will pledge my sword—”

  “Save your pledges for someone with younger ears. The ogres are quelled. For now. I’ve gone elsewhere to find the help you promised me. I am aided by Lord Caelholdt of Cael Keep, to the north. We have an alliance now, him and I. Your services are no longer required.”

  “That is good—”

  “It is a nuisance. Much like the ogres you swore to vanquish.”

  “Again, I cannot tell you how sorry I am. If there is any—”

  “Enough groveling. Stoop any lower and you’re like to get a taste of my boot. Your misdeeds, Master Ulther, are now beyond my purview; your crimes have strayed into the province of kings. You’ve shown yourself for the sort of man you truly are. Now, tell me true. What do you want from me? Why is it you’ve come?”

  “I’ve come for my wife. Nothing more.”

  “Ah, my Alynor. Living in squalor, while the man into whose protection I entrusted her gambols about on distant shores. You gave all for a charge only a traitor could admire. Curse you for leaving her to such a fate.”

  “Is she not here with you?”

  “Here? In my halls?”

  “I had assumed you would take her in. She is your daughter.”

  Lord Mirrowell’s fingers caressed a groove in the armrest. “Where do you suppose Olyvard King’s Pathfinders looked first when his decree came down?”

  “Has Tarber King done nothing to protect the daughter of his faithful servant?”

  “He has done everything within his power. And what power is that, you ask, in Dathrond’s shadow? None.”

  “When the Korengadi invaded, Thraihm and Berliac took up arms against Dathrond and Olyvard King in kind. Why does Orothwain now skulk before him?”

  “When has Orothwain ever made a match for Dathrond? Now that Olyvard has gathered himself a new army, he’ll be the only king in these realms to know true power for years to come.”

  “Olyvard has a new army? From where?”

  “From the realms. Where else? He required every lord in Dathrond to dispatch ten percent of his levy to Maergath in tribute. He even gave the lords of the other kingdoms a summons to do the same. A sign of loyalty, he said it was.”

  “And you gave him yours…”

  “What else could I do? To refuse him would’ve been the same as standing against Dathrond.”

  “Where does Olyvard find the coin to pay one army in Korengad and another in Maergath?”

  “Oh, it gets better. Each lord must sustain his own conscripts. Though my tributes wear the Dathiri colors and serve in a castle far abroad, my wealth pays their wages as if they stood upon my own battlement.”

  “And the high lords have let Olyvard get away with this?”

  “There have been stirrings, mind you. No one has raised a complaint against him, though.”

  “This is madness. Surely he cannot mean to continue this policy indefinitely.”

  “Why shouldn’t he? Poor harvests these last years have hurt us, not him. The burning of the Eastgap did little to strain his coffers; only to squeeze the farmers who fill them. When food became scarce, prices rose. Those willing to resist Dathrond fell away.”

  “I am willing,” Darion said.

  “Clearly. Best of good fortune to you in finding help for that venture.”

  “Help or no, I will never again submit to Olyvard King.”

  Another grunt. “Your old age has made you no wiser, I see.”

  “With respect, Lord Mirrowell, I am no fool. How does Olyvard intend to stop me if I take umbrage with him?”

  “You have been gone a long time, Darion. Conscripts are not the only breed Olyvard King has drawn unto himself. They say he has raised a host of new Warpriests. Creatures of every race beneath the sun. Young and inexperienced though the majority may be, they are Warpriests nonetheless.”

  “As dangerous as that sounds,” said Darion, “it baffles me as to why, through all these years, you have never seen fit to take Alynor under your protection.”

  “That she is not here does not mean she is outside my protection. Only that the Greenkeep is no place for her. She came here seeking my help, yes. She and the scoundrels you call friends. I turned her away. I could scarce bear to do it, but I will not suffer to lose my seat over the iniquities of a villainous man like you. In the eyes of the Dathiri King, Alynor is as much a traitor as you are. You have dragged her name through the ashes, and mine with it.”

  “Is your seat more important to you than the life of your daughter?”

  Lord Mirrowell pounded the armrest. “Bloody buggering ingrates, all of you. Alynor’s life is the very reason I refused her. Dathiri soldiers now break from well-traveled roads to shelter beneath my roof. They will no longer admit it plainly, but I know why they come. I know for whom they search. To harbor my daughter in my house would be to assure not only her capture, but my downfall as well.”

  “Where is she?”

  Lord Mirrowell lowered his voice. “There is a village. It lies on the southern border of the Wildwood…”

  “Briarcrest,” Darion said. “The Pauper’s Throne. I was within a week’s ride of it. I’ve come all this way south, and she’s been there all the time?”

  The Lord of the Greenkeep looked toward the window, where sunlight split the crosshatched panes and scattered them across the stone floor. “Not anymore. Last I heard, she was fled from that village.”

  “Fled? From whom?”

  “Dathiri Pathfinders chased her into the Wildwood. That is all I know.”

  “You implied she was under your protection.”

  “There is only so much I can do from afar.”

  “Were you not inclined to do more when you heard of her plight? She could be anywhere by now. Lost. Captured. Kil—”

  “Silence. There is no place here for such talk. Not from one who should’ve considered the dangers his wife might face before he left her to commit high treason against the King of Dathrond.”

  “If it was treason to spare Maergath the sword, then I am guilty of it. And so would I be again, had I to do it over.”

  “You defied the king’s command. You are therefore a traitor. That is why I cannot grant you sanctuary here.”

  “I did not come here for sanctuary. I see now I should not have come at all.”

  “No. You should’ve stayed in the north, where men like you belong. Where will you go, now that all is lost to you?”

  “To find my wife. Where you might’ve gone already, had you a spine.”

  Lord Mirrowell shot to his feet. “You dare offer me insult in my own hall?”

  I have dared to do much worse, and this time will not be the last, Darion wanted to say. “Forgive my impertinence, my lord. I assure you, it is only that I am shocked by the news of Alynor’s peril. You must understand, I expected to find her here, comfortable and safe. Now I can only guess whether the Dathiri have found her, or whether she lies alone somewhere in the Wildwood.”

  “She is not alone,” Lord Mirrowell said.

  “Is one of your guardians with her?”

  “Not a guardian. A son.”

  Darion looked at him as if seeing with new eyes. “What does she call him?”

  “I a
m told his name is Draithon.”

  “He is mine,” Darion whispered, and suddenly found himself fighting back a wave of emotion.

  “Aye, and a strong lad. Sharp like his father, I’m told. Let us hope he lives to be the wiser.”

  “When did you receive news of Alynor’s escape?” Darion asked, anxious to be on the move again.

  “Three days ago.”

  “Then perhaps it is not too late.”

  “I pray you have the right of it,” said Lord Mirrowell. “For your sake, and mine.”

  “What risk is her capture to you?”

  Lord Mirrowell gave Darion a look of disbelief. “That she is my daughter. What more risk does a man bear in all his life than to witness the endangerment of his child?”

  That you still think of her as your daughter despite the threat to your station had escaped me, Darion thought. “Of course. Of course.”

  “Have you dreamed up some other slight to hurl at me, or will you take your leave?”

  Darion should not have cared that Lord Mirrowell held him in such disdain, but the man’s words stung him nonetheless. “I will trouble you no longer,” he said with a bow.

  “Before you go, I have had a special request from a servant of mine who wishes to see you. Find him in the aviary.”

  Darion nodded and left the high hall.

  The Greenkeep’s aviary was a roofless tower with moss-covered walls and a spiral staircase ascending to a patchwork of wooden boards which were all that remained of the old floor. Black nets hung across the opening between tower and sky. When Darion saw who was waiting for him there, he smiled despite himself. “Jeebo. By the gods, it’s you.”

  The two men clasped arms and patted shoulders.

  “Sir Darion,” Jeebo said. “I was heartened to learn of your coming. Tell me of the war, and your adventures in the north.”

  “Another time,” Darion said.

  Jeebo nodded. “Will you stay long?”

  “I leave at once. Tell me… how did you come to be in the service of Lord Mirrowell?”

  “He was in need of a falconer when Lady Alynor came here seeking his aid. He asked that I stay and help him keep an eye on her from afar, in the giving and receiving of messages, and so forth.”

  “Are these the spies who gave me away, then?” Darion asked with a laugh, pointing at the high perch along the curved tower wall where three brown falcons sat under hood.

  “If a man wishes to improve his sight,” Jeebo said, “he need only spend a little time with birds.”

  “Where is my favorite bird of all? The one who plays vessel for an old man’s soul?”

  “Ristocule.” Jeebo looked at his feet. “I’ve not seen him in some time.”

  “No, of course not. He would’ve been with Alynor.”

  Jeebo nodded. “He was. They were separated.”

  “Lord Mirrowell told me about the Dathiri Pathfinders. What more do you know?”

  “Little, I’m afraid. I see only what my birds see.”

  Darion creased his brow. “I never knew you had such a talent.”

  Jeebo gave a little smile. “It is less talent than insight. My birds are never aware when I’ve touched their minds, yet I know their desires better than they do themselves.”

  “So all those years ago… you knew Sir Jalleth was leading you toward Eventide. It was more than his influence alone which led to your meeting Alynor and traveling with us to Maergath.”

  “Much more. Faranion’s hand was in all of it.”

  “As you say. What does Faranion tell you about Alynor’s chances?”

  Jeebo laughed. “Believe me, I am no mystic. The future is dark from where I stand. I bear witness to the past, if anything; I must wait for my birds to return before I know what they’ve seen. Yet though I walk in darkness, Faranion guides my steps.”

  “It’s good work you’re doing here,” Darion said. “I pray he gives you the strength to do much more of it.”

  Jeebo shook his head. “My time in Lord Mirrowell’s service is at an end. Permit me to accompany you wherever it is you are going. My only regret is that I could not follow you the last time. It is clear to me now; Faranion has contrived to bring us together once more.”

  “I would not deny you a sign from your god,” said Darion, “but Lord Mirrowell will not see it that way. He despises me as it is. I would not take a working man from his household.”

  “You would not be taking me if I happened to leave at the same time you did,” Jeebo said.

  “You are the most skilled falconer I have ever known, though I admit you number among a small group. Lord Mirrowell would feel as though I were stealing you from him. I myself would regret stealing you from your work.”

  “There is little more I can do for Lady Alynor here,” Jeebo said. “If it is her you mean to find, I would sooner join your cause than any other the realms over.”

  One cannot deny the friendship of a man so true, Darion thought. His bond is stronger than simple admiration. He truly loves me, and he cares for my wife as well. “You may join me on one condition.”

  “Anything.”

  “You will tell me everything you know of my son.”

  Jeebo gave a smile so broad his canine teeth glistened in the morning light. “That and more, my lord.”

  “I am a lord no longer. I am your equal now. If we are to travel together, you must grant me that courtesy.”

  “I shall. Though I am sorry to say I cannot be of much use to you as we travel. You see, these falcons all belong to Lord Mirrowell. I do not own a single one, though Hyrana there is my favorite.”

  “Perhaps Lord Mirrowell could be convinced to sell Hyrana to you. If you need gold, I have it.”

  “I could never ask that of you. I will find a new falcon to train.”

  “But you’ve trained this one. You prefer him, do you not?”

  “Her,” Jeebo corrected.

  “Her.”

  “Yes, but I have trained many a bird in my lifetime, and none has failed to become great in his or her own way.”

  “I will make a request of Lord Mirrowell on your behalf.”

  Jeebo shook his head quickly. “Please don’t.”

  “If you want to come with me—”

  “Suddenly, your lone condition has become three,” Jeebo said with a dour grin.

  “Forgive me. I claim to be no lord, yet I still have the habits of one.”

  “Ask him, then. Though I am certain he will refuse.”

  Darion did ask. It was just as Jeebo said—when Lord Mirrowell learned of Jeebo’s departure, he not only refused Darion’s request; he threatened to have them both removed from the keep if they weren’t gone by nightfall.

  Despondent but hopeful, Jeebo saddled his old cob and packed his bags. They left together at noontide, well clear of Lord Mirrowell’s timeframe. Bearing west, they followed the edge of the Breezewood toward the mountains and Fenria Town beyond.

  An idea came to Darion as the Breakspires loomed ahead later that evening. Lord Mirrowell claimed the retainers from Keep Ulther had been recalled there in the wake of Darion’s fall from grace. For all he knew, his old castle might be deserted and crumbling by now. Or Tarber King may have gifted his seat to a new lord. The more likely scenario was that the servants and guardsmen were there to maintain the keep and defend it against robbers and vandals in the interim. That meant Castellan Appleby and Captain Paiten would be in charge, overseeing the grounds and staff.

  Keep Ulther was out of Darion and Jeebo’s way if they wanted to head north toward Briarcrest after crossing over the mountains, but there were a few things among Darion’s possessions there which could make the detour worth it. He’d have to gain access to his tower armory, which might prove perilous. In any case, he needn’t make a decision until after they crossed the Breakspires. If Darion knew anything about those mountains, they were apt to hold a few perils of their own.

  Chapter 10

  Alynor had attempted her spell again and
again on the way to the cave, but the goblins had interrupted her each time with a thump to the head or a jab to the stomach. Now she lay with Draithon in a dungeon cell, little more than a cage of rusted iron bars cordoning off a slanted section of cave. Near the door there was room to sit up, but little else. Just like goblins, she mused, to build a prison too small to house any creature larger than themselves.

  The cave stank of rotting flesh left to molder in the hollows of the earth, and the goblin jailer was an ugly sot with leathery skin and a wart on his thin hooked nose. Fangs jutted from his bottom lip, one sharp and the other broken an inch below the point. Every time Alynor spoke to soothe Draithon’s crying, the jailer issued her a guttural bark. If she continued in defiance of him—which she’d done twice already—he would get up from his gnarled wooden stool and lumber over to give the bars a deafening whack with his club. This only made Draithon wail the louder.

  The boy was too tired now to fuss; his eyelids drooped, his breath slowing toward the rhythms of sleep. For a time, Alynor waited silently for the jailer to nod off himself, or to leave the room on some errand. Thus far the accursed creature had done neither. Nor had he offered her food or drink since her arrival.

  Alynor doubted her captors planned to feed her at all. More likely they were building a cookfire on which to have her and Draithon seasoned and spitted for the evening meal. If only the jailer would leave off long enough to let her cast a spell, she might be able to break out. Not that she would know where to go if she did; she’d lost all sense of direction while the goblins were carrying her here. She remembered them emerging from the Wildwood, crossing a road, and wading through an icy river before ascending the foothills to their subterranean den. That was all she remembered, though. The darkness of the cave had disoriented her beyond reckoning before the torches of the dungeon came into view.

  Since the jailer refused to fall asleep or go away, Alynor decided to attempt her spell again with him sitting only a short distance from her cell. As long as the creature wasn’t a mage like Geddle the Wise had been, perhaps it could be done. Alynor began to rock Draithon in her arms. She spoke the sigils, bending the mage-song’s rigid tones into a flowing lullaby to conceal them.