by James Erich
The vek took a sip of his brandy.
“Then he will leave this city.”
Chapter 21
KOREH returned to his room in the servants’ wing briefly to change out of the formal dress attire he’d been given by Diven for the funeral, into something more comfortable and a bit less ostentatious. Unfortunately there appeared to be some kind of conspiracy to clean him up and make him look more presentable as a guest of the vek. His simple tunic and breeches had failed to reappear. Not that they were anything fancy, but Geilin had bought them for him and Koreh couldn’t recall the last time anybody had given him anything. It bothered him to think they had been thrown out with the trash.
But at least they had been replaced with something he felt comfortable wearing—a clean linen tunic and breeches of a fairly simple design, though the fabric was still of a finer weave than anything he’d ever owned, and they were utterly spotless. There was even a blue woolen cloak with a silver brooch worth enough to feed a family of six in his old neighborhood for a month, but he left that behind for now.
Geilin had suggested that, if Koreh needed something to occupy his time and take his mind off fretting about his future with Sael, he could do worse than to lend a hand in the castle courtyard, where preparations for a possible siege were underway. So Koreh ventured down there. Like their counterparts throughout the city, all the smiths in the keep were at work in the smithy, repairing armor and weapons and forging new ones. The grooms were busy in the stables, brushing down the horses and polishing and repairing saddles and reins. And supply wagons were arriving in a steady stream, bringing food and other necessities from storehouses outside the city walls into the keep to be stored there in the expectation of a long siege.
Koreh had no difficulty finding work. The wagons belonged to merchants in the city and were being driven and unloaded by common laborers. They were glad enough of Koreh’s help, not bothering to ask who he was or how he’d gotten there. His new clothes seemed to mark him as one of the dekan’s household servants, but Koreh was content to be associated with them for the time being. At least nobody was bowing and scraping to him. He spent several hours unloading wagons, happy to once again take part in the relaxed banter and vulgar humor of the peasantry.
In the afternoon, two horses cantered into the courtyard, and Koreh was surprised to see everyone immediately drop what they were doing and bow down low. He turned to see Vek Worlen and Sael approaching, riding on powerful warhorses and dressed in black battle armor sporting the vek’s royal seal. Sael’s armor combined the seal of Harleh with the Menaük eagle insignia. Koreh was once again struck by how beautiful Sael was, though he thought the fancy armor a bit excessive.
He couldn’t bring himself to bow as low as those around him, but he at least bobbed his head to the vek. Worlen returned this gesture with a curt nod.
“What are you doing?” Sael asked, looking vaguely appalled. “Did someone put you to work?”
Koreh wiped a rivulet of sweat from his brow and beamed back at him. “I put myself to work. I can’t just sit around while everyone else is preparing for the war.”
One corner of Sael’s shapely mouth quirked up in amusement. “All right. If that makes you happy.”
“Come,” Worlen commanded his son, apparently bored with the conversation. He turned without a second glance at Koreh and rode away. Sael rolled his eyes at his friend before reining his horse around to follow.
He doesn’t seem upset.
That might be a good sign. Or it might simply be that he was good at hiding his emotions.
Or maybe he’s already resigned to being separated from me. It was a grim thought, but one Koreh couldn’t get out of his head once it had lodged there. What was more likely? That Sael would defy his father and run off with a peasant? Or that he would realize that Koreh wasn’t worth sacrificing all his wealth and privilege for?
Koreh felt like a fool for letting a nobleman steal his heart. They were a devious and unpredictable lot. Most likely Sael was toying with him, using him to manipulate his father. Perhaps he thought the vek would free him of the responsibility of being dekan if he proved an embarrassment to the family. Or perhaps he was beginning to realize being the dekan was what he’d been born and bred to do.
With the vek gone, work resumed in the courtyard. Everyone gave Koreh suspicious glances now, wondering why the vek and his son were so familiar with him, which irritated Koreh. The feeling of easy camaraderie he’d had earlier was gone, thanks to that chance meeting. Koreh grabbed a heavy sack of coarse flour and heaved it out of the wagon, trying to ignore the eyes upon him.
He carried the sack to a smaller cart waiting to take supplies into the keep and let it fall on top of the other sacks with a dull thud, a bit of white powder puffing out through its sides. Then he went back for another, hoping the strenuous labor would provide an escape from his dark thoughts.
AS HE spurred his horse forward to catch up to his father, Sael couldn’t get the image of Koreh out of his mind—Koreh, the color of his hair made pale by a fine dusting of flour, sleeves rolled back to show the corded muscles in his lanky arms, and his face streaked with sweat and grime. Why this image aroused him, Sael wasn’t quite sure, but he kept thinking how wonderful it would be to strip Koreh and wash every inch of his naked body clean….
Gods, how could I ever let Father send him away? I can’t. I won’t!
He wasn’t sure what his father would do if he resisted orders. Disinherit him? Worlen could be ruthless at times and was known for giving no quarter. He might have some second thoughts about cutting off his only surviving son, but Sael didn’t doubt for a moment he would do it.
Sael could live without the tondekan. But could he live as a pauper, cut off with no income? He’d be eaten alive, even with Koreh to protect him. And even if they managed to survive together somewhere, the thought of laboring on a farm or a mill somewhere made Sael feel sick to his stomach.
He and his father were approaching the training grounds in the western courtyard behind the keep, but still within the innermost wall of the city. The grounds weren’t big enough for the entire army of Harleh to go through drills here, certainly not with Worlen’s forces combined. The majority of the army was outside the city, being run through its paces on the plain. But the vek had ordered the generals and commanders of the forces to assemble at this hour so they could meet the new dekan.
Sael was so nervous he felt queasy. He knew nothing about the military, and these men knew that. They would hate him on sight.
The men stood in formation when they rode up and immediately snapped to attention.
Worlen pulled up alongside Meik, who was standing in the front, decked out in full battle armor. “General Meik, I would like to address your troops.”
“Certainly, Your Grace!” the general replied with a sharp salute.
The vek nodded and prodded his horse to take a few steps forward. “We have an army approaching and little time for formalities. But I wish to present to you Seffni’s younger brother, and the new Dekan of Harleh, Sael dönz Menaük!”
The reception to this announcement was far from enthusiastic. The men applauded, as they knew was expected. But it was merely polite. Sael cringed, inwardly, but attempted to remain stoic and dignified in the saddle.
“We’ve no time for Sael to go through the ceremony of ascension until the battle is won. So for the time being, I expect you to obey him as if he is already the dekan. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Your Grace!” came the general assent from the men.
“He will be in charge of Harleh’s military, General Meik,” the vek continued. “You will be taking your orders directly from him.”
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” Meik said, loud enough for all to hear. “But I was under the impression that the boy was training to be a mage.”
The implication that a mage was hardly qualified to command a military general was clear, and the general referring to Sael as a “boy” was brazenl
y disrespectful. Sael was shocked. People seldom spoke like this around the vek. He half expected his father to give the general a furious dressing down.
But oddly, he did not. Worlen simply replied, “He has been. Though I understand from Master Geilin that he’s become quite a swordsman as well.”
Meik chuckled. “Is that so, Your Grace?”
His impertinence was beginning to rankle Sael. Though he knew it would probably be wiser to keep his mouth shut, he couldn’t resist saying, “I placed in the royal tournament last year.”
“Really?” Meik said, “Which place was that?”
The omission of his title was deliberate. Sael was sure of it.
“Fifth.”
There was a murmur of laughter among the ranks. This made Sael furious. The finest swordsmen in the kingdom fought in the royal tournament. Fifth place was exceptional. Why was his father tolerating this blatant insubordination?
“Who’s your best man, then?” Sael snapped at Meik.
“Best swordsman? Why, that would be Sevat over there.”
He indicated a man standing in the first row, about ten years older than Sael. The man smiled and nodded at the new dekan, placing his hand on the hilt of the sword he wore. “Milord.”
Sael dismounted from his horse, hooking the reins up over the saddle. He took a step forward, a hand on his own sword hilt. Then he turned to look back at his father.
And that’s when he realized he’d been had. The vek was watching him with amusement, a smug look on his face. Clearly this had been his plan all along, and Meik was simply playing a part. The two had conspired to bait Sael into fighting. No doubt Sevat was also in on it, which is why he was standing in the front row, a sword ready at his side.
Sael cursed silently to himself.
It was too late to turn back. He’d already more or less challenged Sevat. If he didn’t go through with it, he’d never live it down.
He turned back to Sevat and drew his sword from the scabbard, holding it up in front of him. “Emperor’s rules, then. Points only. Best two out of three.”
“As you wish, Milord,” Sevat said, stepping forward and drawing his own sword.
The two touched swords. Worlen and General Meik made room for them, the general taking Sael’s horse by the reins and leading him off to the side.
“Very well,” the vek said. “Let’s see what they’ve been teaching you in the capital. And Sevat?”
The man looked up. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“Don’t go easy on him. That’s an order.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Sael frowned but said nothing. Instead he assumed the ready posture, feet spread apart and sword extended toward his opponent. Sevat smiled and imitated him.
General Meik gave the signal and Sevat lunged. Sael parried easily and the fight was joined.
It soon became obvious to Sael his opponent was no country bumpkin with a knack for swordplay. Sevat was expertly trained and could easily have challenged any swordsman in the capital. Sael had to push himself to the limits of his training in order to keep up with the man’s fast and efficient maneuvering.
Sevat scored the first point, stabbing Sael in the shoulder. It wasn’t intended to seriously wound him—merely to score a point. It didn’t even penetrate his dress mantle. But Sael felt it and he heard the snickering of the soldiers.
The point was called and both combatants stepped back for a moment, bowed briefly, and resumed the ready position. Then Meik signaled for the match to continue.
Sael had been observing Sevat’s style, and he began to see predictable patterns—barely perceptible alterations of his stance just before he lunged, for instance. His focus narrowed, watching Sevat intensely, until he saw the pattern begin to emerge again.
Sael spun, parrying the expected lunge, and then stabbed the point of his own sword into the man’s padded jacket, directly over the heart.
“Point!” Meik shouted.
The soldiers were silent this time. Sael glanced at the vek, but his father’s expression was unreadable. Sael wiped the sweat off his brow, then stepped back and bowed to Sevat.
His opponent seemed to have been slightly unnerved by Sael scoring a point against him. The man’s expression had lost its arrogance and he now looked grim. When the contest was rejoined, Sevat immediately lunged at Sael. Perhaps he thought to catch Sael by surprise, but he failed. Sael parried and then attacked. Sevat was barely able to parry Sael’s first thrust and Sael didn’t give him time to recover. He pressed forward, striking at the man repeatedly, driving him back.
At last, Sevat faltered and Sael’s blade struck home against Sevat’s chest, just below the man’s throat.
“Point and match!” Meik exclaimed, a broad grin on his face. “His Lordship wins.”
Sevat looked put out, but the other soldiers laughed loudly and applauded. Sael bowed to his opponent and then turned to bow to the men.
“You appear to have learned something after all,” Vek Worlen said, a faint smile creeping across his stern features.
Sael answered that half-smile with one of his own, realizing this was the most praise he’d ever received from his father.
“Good match, Your Lordship.” Sevat had recovered from his defeat and was extending a hand to the boy. Sael took it.
“Yes, it was. Thank you, Sevat.”
The vek allowed Meik to dismiss the men after that, and Sael followed his father back to the stables. When they were out of the soldiers’ hearing, he drew his mount up alongside Worlen’s and asked, “What was the point of that, sir? Skill with a sword isn’t going to convince them that I can lead them into battle.”
“No, it won’t,” the vek replied calmly. “But soldiers have little respect for mages. In their opinion, misguided though it may be, soldiers put their lives on the line in battle; mages stand on the sidelines, out of danger.”
This was nonsense, Sael knew. A good mage was extremely dangerous in a battle; therefore, the opposing side made it a high priority to kill him as quickly as possible.
“They needed to see that you are not just a mage—that you can handle a blade,” his father continued, “and that you are not afraid to fight.”
“What if I’d lost the match?”
Worlen snorted. “Menaük do not lose.”
Chapter 23
THE work in the courtyard was to continue well into the night, but the family Koreh had been assisting most—a farmer who owned a small gristmill outside the city walls and his two sons, Mak and Snut—called a halt to their labors shortly after nightfall.
Koreh was exhausted. He could have left at any time, of course, but it had become a matter of pride to endure the backbreaking work as long as Mak, who was only fifteen. But younger or not, Mak was a farmer’s son, used to working hard. The boy looked barely winded by the end of the day, whereas Koreh felt as though his back would snap if he lifted another sack of flour.
Living in the woods for several years, he’d always regarded bathtubs as a pointless luxury—a quick dip in the river was all he generally needed. But now he wanted nothing more than to soak for hours in the hot bath in his room.
Or, if he was lucky, in Sael’s room.
But when he made to say his goodnights, Mak and Snut would hear none of it.
“Da says we’re hittin’ the pub on the way home,” Snut said. He was older than Koreh by a year or two, stocky and copper-haired like his brother. “You gotta come with us. Da’ll pay for you. You’ve earned it.” They seemed to have forgotten the status conferred upon Koreh by his public conversation with vek’s son, perhaps because his clothes were now saturated in sweat and caked with flour and dirt, and he didn’t look any different than anyone else who’d been laboring all day.
Koreh wanted to refuse. In addition to the bath, he desperately wanted to see Sael again. There had been no time to see him during the day.
But what if he sends me away? What if he’s no longer allowed to see me?
Perhaps having
a drink or two before confronting that possibility wouldn’t be such a bad idea. And he couldn’t say he’d mind spending more time in the family’s genial company.
So he accepted their offer and hopped on the back of the wagon with the two brothers.
Moghm, as the farmer was called, took Koreh and his sons to a pub just outside the outer wall that catered to a lower class than the fancy inns near the keep. The Molting Kikid was popular with local farmers due to its location, cheap ale, and flirtatious tavern maids. Tonight the place was so crowded it was difficult to find a table. But the four of them managed to squeeze into a back corner, and Moghm ordered a round of the house ale.
“You were a great help, me boy,” the large man told Koreh, saluting him with his mug. “It was much appreciated.”
“I was glad to help.”
Mak took a sip of his ale, but he seemed to be watching Koreh warily. The youth set the mug down, after a moment, and said, “I can’t help but wonder why you did help.”
“What do you mean?” Koreh asked. “There was work to be done, so I did it.”
“But we saw you talking to the new dekan,” Mak said. “You’re a friend o’ his.”
Word had obviously spread quickly about Sael inheriting his older brother’s title. Koreh glanced at Moghm and Snut, but both appeared to be looking off at something across the room.
He shrugged. “I guess you could say we’re friends.”
“You’re a noble, then, are you?” Snut asked, unable to feign indifference any longer. Then he added quickly, just in case, “Milord?”
Moghm said nothing, but Koreh could tell that the man was listening intently.
“I’m no nobleman,” Koreh replied darkly, taking a drink from his own mug. “So you can keep your ‘milords’ to yourself.”
“Then how do you know the dekan?”
“Snut!” Moghm interjected. “That’s no business o’ yours.”
But Koreh saw no reason not to tell them the truth, or at least part of it. “The vek’s son hired me to escort him here from the capital. He wasn’t the dekan, then.”
