Days passed, with towns and villages coming and going, small farmhouses giving way to rolling hills, and then a barren, brown, wasteland. For a time, it felt like they were on a constant incline, but then things leveled-out again, and then one day they stopped before a large fortification on a hill. A red, earthen, outcropping of rock, which gave way to a many-towered keep of the same red stone. All around it was dry, leafless brush, and only a long, narrow road which wound its way through the brush and hills, barely discernible from the land around it.
“Where are we?” Alaina asked, peering out of the carriage window.
Stans Wallace leaned forward slightly, looking out. “The Ridgefort of Ayer. We stop here.”
“For how long?” Alaina asked, her voice betraying impatience, and not a small amount of fear, she was sure.
“For a time,” said Stans Wallace, and he stepped out of the carriage.
Baggage was unloaded, and servants carried chests and crates from the carts, up the hill, and into the fort. Stans Wallace met his mother and sister, and Alaina followed behind them as they headed inside.
The keep felt not so dissimilar to Cragsmoor, but the halls were more crudely fashioned, as if carved from the rock of the hills themselves, narrower, uneven. The floors sloped slightly up and then down, the walls were smooth, but misshapen.
Alaina was seen to a small chamber with Erielle, their chests deposited by two servants. Down the hall she saw Blanche and Stans Wallace move into a brightly lit clearing, where two men stood. One was some ten years her senior, with fair hair, and dark eyes. He was wearing a fine tunic of orange, a brown lark stitched upon the breast, and gray breeches. The other was a dark-haired young man she recognized. “Marcel,” she called. “M’lord Howland.”
Marcel looked up, surprised at first, she thought, but then he smiled. He headed over, while behind him the fair-haired man narrowed his eyes, studying her. “Ah, m’lady of Lyle, so nice of you to join us.”
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Who is that man with you there? He looks… familiar.”
Marcel looked over his shoulder. “That’s Erick Odein. The Earl of Ayer.”
Ayer was not a place she was overly familiar with, though she knew what anyone of noble birth from the west would know. Garand and Livandra Odell had perished some five years prior, and their son had assumed title. He was not wed, and beyond that she knew little, except to say she was quickly suspecting he bore more allegiance to the Duke of Casterlin than he did to the Crown.
After a few more words were exchanged, Marcel took her by the arm and let her off in her room, and the door was closed behind her.
“Tonight they’ll lock it,” Erielle said. “Just wait.”
“I know,” said Alaina. “I know.”
They room was locked that night, and on into the morning. Sometime near midday a servant came and delivered iron plates of food for the two of them, bearing some form of pickled pork, a mashed green vegetable, and a vile wine, dark, and strong. Alaina attempted to ask of the servant what was happening, but he disappeared quickly, saying not a word.
A few more days went by in the same manner, before Alaina grew indignant, and began pounding on the door. Erielle attempted to calm her, warning her not to make a disturbance, to wait, but a life lived in the comfort of noble birth also gave her unmatched confidence, even if it might be to her detriment.
In short order a key turned in the lock, and Alaina backed away, placing her hands on her hips, prepared to battle the newcomer with words, if with nothing else. It was Blanche that entered however, her black and gray hair up in a tight bun, a dark dress draped over her stout frame. Alaina had not expected her.
“What do you want?” the old woman demanded of the girl before her. “We have work to attend to, unlike some spoiled little ladies.”
“Wh-when are we going to Valis?” Alaina managed, swallowing a breath. “The coronation will be any day now. When do we leave?”
Blanche laughed at that, a sound from deep in her throat. “We will get there in time, my dear. However, first we have a different ceremony to perform.”
Chapter Twenty
JETHRA
Anger overcame Jethra as she stood in Marsen Crake’s office, seething. She balled her hand into a fist and slammed it down on the desk. “I was sent to die.” With her other hand she threw the two remaining silver heste onto his desk, where they rolled about, before clattering onto their faces.
“Come now, come now,” Crake said, eyeing the coins as they dropped. “We meant no such thing.”
“What value did Viserin have to you? What value to your grand plan?”
Crake put his fist down and leaned over the desk at her. “That is none of your concern.”
“I am done,” she spat back. “I will no longer play along in your twisted game.”
Crake took one of the silver coins from his desk and help it up to her. He turned and walked over to the wall, where the three other coins struck through with arrows, still sat pinned to the wall. He drew his dagger, held the coin up to the wall, and then slammed the dagger home, into the coin. The blade slid off of metal and hit the wall, the task clearly more difficult than he had imaged, but after three more forceful strikes, Crake managed finally to stick the coin there, wedged against the dagger blade, leaving it resting beside the others.
Jethra opened her mouth to respond but found no words. She closed it again.
“I’ll give you this one,” he said pointing to the coin, “but you owe me one more.” He picked up the one remaining silver heste from the table and held it up to her. “One final life. Then you will have what you desire.”
Jethra stared at the coin, at the hand holding it. She thought of running. She thought of screaming in Crake’s face. She thought of pulling her own dagger and putting it into his eye. But then other thoughts worked their way into her mind. That lovely smile, hair dark as night. Still alive yet, perhaps, if dreams are possible... Her own eyes welled up despite efforts to remain calm. She took a ragged breath, grabbed the coin from his hand, glared at his dawning smile, and then turned her back to him and left the room.
After that she visited another merchant that Crake had set her up with, this one a master clockmaker. His shop was filled with gears and springs and weights of all shapes and sizes. Within only a few minutes she was leaving him behind, with two packages wrapped in dark cloth, one under each arm.
Later that day she received her latest message through Pedin at The Drowning Goose detailing her last target. By the time the sun was setting that evening, she was leaving Novak behind.
Chapter Twenty-One
MARTIN
The meetings with Gregor Hake had, by this time, become routine. There was yelling and cursing, red faces, clenched jaws and fists, and threats of violence. This latest time though, Hake seemed angry, but was oddly in control of his temper.
He was mad, there could be no doubt, but there was something different about him. Something that had moved on, accepted the inevitable, perhaps. “For my part, I am done,” Hake said to him, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The widow Kardiff and the city guard both want your hide, what with the numerous bodies you’ve left in your wake. I have a mind to turn you over to them. But, House Casterlin, well, the Duke has more patience it would seem, and so they are giving you one last chance. You will go now, and you will do as you are told, or you are finished.”
Martin knew the man meant the words. He could see it in the steely calm of his eyes, the flat expression on his face, lacking any wrinkles or creases in the brow or mouth that came with his usual looks of consternation. He was beyond screaming at Martin now, he was serious. The only part Martin had yet to discern was if he cared.
What do I have without Hake? Without House Casterlin? What will I do, if I don’t end up on the end of a guardsman’s spear, or locked in shackles? Become like my grandfather, a butcher? Return to the blood and guts, elbow deep by day in entrails and carcasses? Finding only rest by night,
in a small hovel above my shop? Up again before the sun breaks from the horizon?
In the end he left Hake’s office, and set out from Durrett with Ciaran, Roald, and a dozen other men. Gorett’s elephantine cousin was in the lead on this one, not him, something he had to swallow along with what was left of his pride, as he rode from the town with a contingent half-made of unknown men.
Chapter Twenty-Two
WILLIAM
The journey from Lyle to Valis had been rough, coming so quickly as it did after their return from Galde. They had only stopped briefly again at Warrenhold on the way back south and had then made a near ceaseless run for home. But they did not tarry long there either, only stopping to gather more carts, horses, and supplies, before continuing south again toward Valis. Byron did not want to delay he said, he wanted to take action, something Will could only applaud. Though the effort might be late, decisive movement to shore up his position in the realm was more than welcome.
They had tried to arrange for passage by ship, south, down the Kaspen Sea from Whitecrown to the port at Valis, but they could not find enough ships to take them. The royal fleet was small, with many of Lyle’s own ships weeks away. The merchant Fazzil Suk could often be relied upon for his services in this regard, but Serran Odell said they would need at least four weeks themselves to gather enough vessels, as they had several ships now being prepared. Byron had seemed angry at this, peppering Lord Laswick with questions about the supposed relationship he had been building with the merchant. “These things take time,” Lord Laswick had offered, apologetically.
So, instead, they had gone the entire way on horseback, in carriages and carts, and on foot. Will himself was more than uncomfortable sitting astride Mari for days on end, developing sores before they had even made it halfway. He had found time to speak to Byron though, and this time the other man listened to Will and Otollicus, who had come with them, about The Coven. The Covenant of the Raven is how they were referenced in several tomes Otollicus had recovered from the keep library. A cult of sorts, as one tome described them, who worshipped Rook and glorified the passage to the afterlife. Miscreants and upstarts, as referenced in another volume from some hundred years before. Still another, older text, described them as vigilantes who took matters into their own hands when local councils failed to act in good faith for the well-being of their citizens.
Byron also talked of assuming the throne, of finally being able to do great things for Hyrel. Peace between the Houses, food for the people, land for farming and raising cattle, greater centers for art and literary study. The last he spoke of to Otollicus, who had offered to aid with such initiatives. It had been some time since Will had seen such animation and hope in his friend, that it all gave Will himself hope for the future, and the end of the dark days they’d experienced since the death of Robert and the King.
Lars Valken was amongst the group as well, his long pale hair trailing behind him, as he kicked his mount ever forward in earnest. He seemed in good spirits, laughing and boasting when he spoke with Will and Otollicus. “A king’s man am I,” he said, pounding a fist on his chest, “and ever shall be. To see one crowned, ah, the best days of my life will surely be behind me thereafter.”
Despite all of this, when they did arrive at Valis, they looked haggard, all of them. Road-worn and unbathed, hair unkempt, clothes soiled. The crowds parted for the well-armed and armored group, the guardsmen among them dressed in the blue surcoats of House Lyle and ensuring with the ends of their spears, that the party received a wide berth.
Valis was near as old a city in the realm as there was and was no less ornate and opulent than the others. The pure, white Iyril Palace was a series of sharp towers that sat on a strip of green land surrounded on all sides by clear water. The Kaspen Sea was to the north, and the Great South Sea to the south. The city sat as an island in the middle of the wide Eiron River, which ran down each side with only a pair of carved, white marble bridges connecting the eastern and western banks. This was the throne seat of neutrality between the two lands, and the Prince of Valis had long been an independent ruler who had mediated between them for hundreds of years, from the time before Earls, and Dukes, and Kings, wielding his power of earthen travel between the two lands as a scepter of benevolence.
The western bridge into the city was cramped for such a large group, a feature designed to slow the progress of an invading force, while still allow tradesmen’s carts to pass unhindered. It was a feature that appeared to Will to work quite well. They camped the main part of their force on the western bank, but a contingent of some fifty guards and soldiers crossed the western bridge, over the wide river, into the city. They were loyal Lyle men all, many who Will had known for years. It was a fact that comforted him, especially since Lord Laswick had told the Prince Regent that a smaller force would be more respectable. For once Byron had stood up to the older man, the sort of welcome change Will continued to see in his friend since Galde.
When the party had passed through the narrow streets of white stone buildings, they found their way to a large stable near the palace. It was one of only a few buildings constructed entirely of wood that they had encountered thus far, and looked to have been recently built, perhaps for this very occasion. It was all bright, fresh hewn beams and the smell of fresh hay. Absent was the odor of hay heaped upon aging hay, mixed with manure, that would normally permeate such a place.
A slight page dressed in purple velvet appeared, young, but with thin black hair that was retreating from a shiny pate. He made a point to show them where in the stables they could leave their weapons, and then once they were all disarmed, led them into the bright marble halls of the Iyril Palace, and to a wide domed chamber of white marble. There were patterns of yellow and red stone laid in a circle on the floor, bordered in black quartz, interspersed with shining flecks that caught the sunlight.
Byron looked suddenly lost in thought, studying the center of the circle where the house emblem of the Prince of Valis sat. Picked out in a mosaic of small, angular stones were the two white swans facing inside a circle of purple and orange. Will stopped his own gazing and made his way over to his friend’s side, his footsteps echoing all the way across the large space as he did.
“This is where it happened,” the Prince Regent said, his gaze unwavering. “This is where Robert met his end.” Suddenly anger overtook him, his jaw tight, balled fists at his sides. “Someone will answer for it now. When I am King, they can’t stop me. I should’ve never let Alaina go. Her heart was in the right place, but they’ve divided us, and she’s assuredly in danger. We’ll leave Valis together and get to the bottom of all of this.”
For once Will agreed whole-heartedly with his friend. Byron was finally seeing the truth of things, perhaps better than Will himself. Across the room he saw Lord Laswick studying Byron, his mouth a thin line, his eyes flicking back and forth like a potter searching his latest creation for cracks or imperfections. Will forced his own concern down behind exasperation as he said, “Where is that bloody Prince?” They needed this coronation done, and then back to Lyle to plan their first strike.
Chapter Twenty-Three
JETHRA
Long trains of people entered the city of Valis on both sides, crossing the wide marble bridges; men and women, children and animals, nobles, and citizens, the infirm and the poor, everyone was coming to witness the coronation of the new king. Such an event had not occurred in more than sixty years.
Jethra had no trouble slipping amongst them, as with Novak, there were too many for any real inspection to be done, and the Prince of Valis, knowing well his city’s historical role, had no choice but to embrace the masses. She had her pack, her bow and her quiver. Her daggers were hidden here and there on her person. As with Novak, no one would stop her.
Though by tradition no weapons were allowed inside the pristine halls of the palace, the people were armed, and so the Prince did not shy away from an armed presence to keep the peace within the city. Guardsmen were everywh
ere, wearing their tabards of orange and purple, the twin swans of white, kissing on their chests over burnished platemail, circular kettle helms upon their heads, tall halberds of pale ashwood and steel by their sides.
When the dark of night overtook the bright city, she visited each of the bridges, east and west, and climbed down below them, and into the water. When she was done her pack was empty and she was shivering. She moved carefully to a nearby alleyway and removed her sodden clothes, replacing them with tunic and trousers stowed in a barrel. Then she made her way toward the center of the city, where the tall towers of the Iyril Palace shone in the moonlight, silver knives on the inky black backdrop of the night sky.
Unfurling her rope, she fastened a grappling hook to it, then swung the rope round and round in a circle before tossing it high onto the rooftop of a two-story building above. The building was rectangular and squat and comprised of white clay bricks. When she pulled the line taut, the hook caught the roof ledge above, and then she climbed to the rooftop. From this vantage point she could see the whole city and had a perfect view of the courtyard of grass and marble that sat before the palace below.
Jethra knew what she was to do, knew what was to come, as sure as anything she’d ever known before. This is where it will happen. This is where I will pay my debt, where the ultimate price will be paid, and an end put to it all. Only then will they be truly free.
Chapter Twenty-Four
MARTIN
The entire journey down the coast of the Kaspen Sea he was plotting to rid himself of Gorett’s giant cousin, who was now leading them. He knew he’d have the loyalty of Ciaran and Roald, but would the others side with him against the behemoth? They were not his men; he couldn’t be sure. The giant would have to go first somehow.
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