Ghost in the Yew: Volume One of the Vesteal Series

by Blake Hausladen

  “I hate them for it. Even father and mother encourage me.”

  “Is that why you were crying?”

  “When?” she said defensively.

  “You cried today, too. Your eyes are still swollen. It’s my turn to hold your hand. Tell me.”

  She started to, halted twice. Then new tears formed. When she finally spoke, her words were so much other than what I had expected that she seemed to be speaking in a foreign tongue.

  “Stop. What did you say Fana? Start over.”

  She squeezed my hands tighter and whispered, “A letter arrived from Bessradi, from Chancellor Parsatayn. He has accused Enhedu of being churlish and has demanded Barok give over 4,000 men into municipal service. Into slavery, Dia, slavery!”

  Her second telling of it did nothing to help my understanding. “Slavery? What are you talking about? When did the chancellor’s letter arrive?”

  She balked at my sudden questioning, but answered the last of them. “Seven. Seven days ago. Just after Leger returned from Bessradi.”

  “Seven? You have kept the chancellor’s letter from Barok for seven days? What did you do?”

  She wept. “I am sorry, milady. I have been reading and writing everything for him for so long. I read the chancellor’s letter and ... oh, I was so desperate.”

  “Tell me,” I ordered, but she rose suddenly and bounded around to another alcove. She returned with two letters and presented them as if they were supposed to explain everything.

  * * *

  The 12th of Summer, 1195

  Prince Barok Yentif, Arilas of Enhedu,

  It has come to the attention of the Chancellery that the citizenry of Enhedu is largely comprised of thieves and outlaws. As it is a duty of your office to compel all people of a churlish nature into their required twenty year term of municipal service, and with the case sufficiently made to the Chancellery that no civic project in Enhedu rises above the needs of those at the capital, you will provide no less than four thousand men sufficient for daily labor to this office for its use no later than the first day of Autumn.

  Acknowledge this writ.

  Helet Parsatayn, Lord Chancellor and Bailiff of Bessradi

  * * *

  The 23rd of Summer, 1195

  Lord Chancellor,

  I regret to inform you that Prince Barok has not read your letter. It appears to slander Lord Vall, and while I question in no way the rights or arguments of your high office, I could not delivery such an affront to one of his sons. The unfortunate working is an obvious error of a careless scribe, and while I dare not repeat the words here, please be assured that when I destroyed your letter, it was to prevent a true calamity. Please resend your query with all haste and due care.

  With utmost respect and humblest regrets,

  F. Sedauer

  Scribe of Urnedi

  * * *

  I did not know what to ask first. Fana was in terrible trouble, and it seemed Enhedu was, too.

  “This is a copy of your letter?”

  “Yes, I sent the original back to Parsatayn with the same messenger who delivered his writ.”

  “But why? It seems clever, but I am confused. Why not tell Barok?”

  She leaned across the table and said in a trembling whisper, “There is a trick to what the chancellor is doing, I am sure of it. I don’t think Barok can acknowledge the letter. It’s a trap. I thought I could figure it out on my own. I have been reading the books about the laws, but—”

  “Wait. Slow down. What is churlish?”

  She started to speak but then stood and dashed around to the same alcove to retrieve a thick book. She returned, found a page, and held it open for me. The tremble did not leave her voice as she tried to explain. “It is a legal word, a person who is a debtor or criminal—a slave. There’s an old law that requires twenty years of labor from anyone who is a churl or is the child of a churl. The proof against being churlish is where the pledge of service comes from. Everyone of age who is not of noble birth signs one to someone, and those contracts prove they and their children are not churlish. But in Enhedu, no one can prove their parentage, and only the few who work at Urnedi are pledged. Dia, we have to somehow prove that no one in Enhedu is churlish, or the chancellor will take us all away to be Bessradi slaves.”

  “Churlish Law?”

  “Yes, it is the ninth of the seventeen original laws of Zoviya,” she said and began flipping back through the pages.

  I waved for her not to and stopped being surprised at her confidence on the subject. She was not the kind of girl who would be content to just keep ledgers. As with the rest of us, her idle time had not gone to waste.

  “You did not trust that you could convince Barok not to respond?”

  “He would have sent Leger,” she stated, and I knew instantly she was right.

  “So you are trying to learn what to do from the books collected here?”

  She nodded and begged weakly, “Please don’t tell Barok. He will send me away if I have no answer for what I have done.”

  “Show me,” I said.

  “Milady? You will help me?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? No one else cares what we want, so we will have to take care of each other.”

  New tears filled her eyes. “They are making us compete, Dia. I am too tired from it. Please, can I be a friend to you again?”

  “Yes, and I am sorry we were not.”

  Much of the tension went out of us then.

  “Okay,” she said, “Let me show you what I know so far.”

  54

  Arilas Barok Yentif

  I woke with a start and rushed to the window, terrified I would find the town in ruins and everyone in it murdered by Hessier. But everything was as it should be, and the crack of Leger’s axe told me how late I was, yet again. Then I felt the dead king who was the cause of my unease.

  ‘Where? Where are my children? Where is my city? Rebuild it, Barok Vesteal. You must rebuild Edonia. You must rebuild our family.’

  I leaned on the desk. The previous morning’s inspection of the new uniform had woken Kyoden and Solon, reminding them of a field strewn with the defeated army of Edonia. I could not set their visions aside.

  Tiredly, I turned back to the bed to find that I was alone. I dressed and rushed down, worried that Dia had not come to bed at all.

  “Hush,” the Dame said as she pressed a bowl of food into my hands and pointed up at an alcove. “She is right there, dear, trying to help Fana keep up with you and Leger. Sit now and eat before the food gets any colder.”

  The gallery space was lit just enough by the dawn for their work. The sight made me feel lazy. The well-cluttered table made the feeling worse. The entire staff had already eaten. Dawn had become the time for work to begin. I began to wonder if Kyoden’s urgent whispers were in their ears too.

  But while I stared at my breakfast and tried to enjoy a single moment’s peace, Leger thundered briskly up the stairs trailed by Gern and Sahin.

  “By capital courier,” he stated and handed me a thin note. “The rider claims no knowledge of its sender but was paid to ride night and day until it was delivered. It is unsigned, but I think it is from Haton.”

  * * *

  Bring all you care to. It is said that you might have needs of your own. Bring terms with all speed and tell your man I was able to get the stain out of his tunica so he need not fear my displeasure.

  * * *

  “From Haton?” I questioned as my quickening pulse eroded my fatigue.

  “Yes. We traded tunicas after the melee. The last part means our names stayed out of the investigation.”

  I reread it, saying, “The first part I understand. He has or will secure market access for our apples. What do you think the rest means? Could that be a reference to the men we have been hiring and the terms of my pledge of service?”

  “It would seem so. Sevat left Bessradi in a hurry, but Haton’s association would certainly have heard that he joined us. Can we handle mor
e new men of that quality?”

  “Handle them, yes. I would only worry what skills they bring with them. We could use a dozen like Sevat, but a vase painter and a book binder might have a hard time finding work.”

  “My lord,” Sahin interrupted, “if I may, I have a separate concern before we entertain what this letter suggests. Is it wise to be bringing so many new Zoviyans here so quickly? I fear what might happen if one of them were to wander north into the yew or expect to find a church when they arrive. We were incredibly fortunate, I think, that none of those Sevat brought had Bayen in their hearts.”

  “Noted,” I said and allowed myself a moment to absorb the letter’s import.

  Leger scratched at his chin and said, “I wonder if Haton knows any dockwrights.”

  The word slapped me, and ambitions born and raised by the dreams of a hundred dead men clawed forward like starved lynx. They screamed of ships and a mighty port, and the desire focused me beyond any previous measure. I stabbed my mind down upon a decision, and the ghosts were instantly silenced.

  “The timing of the letter is excellent,” I said. “Leger, return to Bessradi and speak with Haton’s association. Make them the same offer I made Sevat but with two conditions: market access south of Almidi for our crops and a team of able dockwrights. You also have my leave to take care of any personal business you might have there.”

  “And what if, as Sahin worries, there are those faithful to Bayen in their number?”

  “Can you trust Haton with the topic?”

  “He named his public house the Creedal.”

  I chuckled and replied, “Then make it plain to him that the faithful are not welcome. Hide it behind an unwillingness to make ourselves subject to levies passed down by the Tanayon if you need.”

  I asked Sahin, “Are the greencoats organized enough to keep a watch on the bridge?”

  “Yes,” he nodded. “The second camp finishes its fifty in ten days. We anticipate increasing the size of Gern’s active garrison to four full troops. The senior men and the rest will garrison at the camp and train the next group.”

  “How many will the third round add?”

  “We will be starting a proper company rotation,” Leger replied. “150 new men starting every twenty-five days. We run out after the sixth such camp, though. 950 active soldiers are all you will get out of Enhedu until you increase its population.”

  “Right. And no plainer argument for us to bring back more family men like Sevat can be made.”

  “Agreed,” Sahin relented, though he continued to wear his anxieties like a wet robe.

  “Well enough then,” I said. “Gern, post a guard upon the north bridge and have Fana draw up copies of a declaration that the bridge is unsafe. Cite the death of Lady Emery.”

  I considered for a fleeting moment sending a request to my father for permission to marry, but the only outcome I could imagine was Leger’s dismissal. I set the thought aside.

  The afternoon disappeared as Urnedi hustled to prepare Leger for the road. He left the moment he was ready. I ground my teeth as I watched the proud Fell carrying him away, and tried to set aside the visions of all the bad endings waiting for him. If I could not trust Leger, I was doomed.

  Urnedi cared little for my angst. Word of Leger’s trip had spread, Sahin undoubtedly responsible, and a new swath of proposals came through him to me for businesses that would thrive if Leger was able to convince even five or six men like Sevat to join us. Sahin’s sisters and brother-in-law sold me on the idea of building another timber camp in the vast and untouched hills southwest of Urnedi between the river and the coast. And they were to have company. The rest of Pemini’s brothers convinced me they could corral and care for the wild pigs that infested those same virgin foothills. The Ojesti-like village they wished to establish would put them halfway between the timber camp and the spot where one of Gern’s cousins proposed to put a score of Fell ponies to work pulling yellowtail out of the sea. The effort alone could feed the entire town.

  Merit, meanwhile, began clearing ground for the first phase of his proposed expansion of Urnedi around the second well site. And in preparation for it all, my quarry and timber camps worked furiously to stockpile the materials that would make its many buildings.

  But the constant grind of the work did nothing to soothe my loneliness. Dia and Fana spent every moment up in their gallery alcoves, leaving me to hear reports of the town from Urs. And I wasn’t eating well, either, the Dame was quick to accuse, but it was hard to find an appetite while thinking over the many things the province needed. All of it begged another trip be made south, but it would be seven or eight days at least until Leger returned. To send a second expedition before he returned was folly.

  It was then that a letter arrived. I did not think much of it at first, hoping perhaps Leger had sent back some word of his progress. The Yentif seal upon it did not seem real at first. I stared at it rather like an idiot for a long time. I had never received correspondence from a fellow Yentif before. The thick red wax seal cracked ominously when I finally pried the letter open, and the words upon those pages made all of my many worries shrink away to a single fleck of ash.

  * * *

  The 35th of Summer, 1195

  Brother Barok,

  I do not know if word of the assassinations have reached you, but in the event it has not, I must tell you that our brother princes Malik, Amahn, and Crown Prince Gavish have been murdered. I dread to think that this letter bears the news to you, so please forgive me if this is the first. We have not been told how it happened, but suspect all three were poisoned. The Hessier are everywhere now, and we are all afraid that we will be next.

  I find myself the new crown prince, my guards replaced with men I do not know or trust. I have been told that no expense will be spared to keep me safe, but I, like you, have never benefited from the favor of our family. I hide in a carriage, fearful of those who would not be happy to see me succeed our royal father.

  Barok, of all the Yentif, you are the only one I can be certain is not behind the plot, and therefore, the only man I can trust. We have never known each other, so I can only guess at your feelings toward me, brother, but in my desperation, I write this letter seeking aid and shelter.

  Hidden in Enhedu I might live to see another spring. If you can help me, brother, send a gift of silver.

  Crown Prince Rahan

  * * *

  It was not supposed to happen this time. My father’s hold over Zoviya was too strong for the other royal families to challenge our line. Yet here it was, a new bloodbath begun. History should have taught me not to be surprised. No Exaltier had died of natural causes in a hundred years. The Ataouk had ruled before the Yentif, the eighth and last Exaltier of their line assassinated without an heir. Their rule was pronounced a failure, and the Council of Lords elected my family to replace them. Grandfather Sol assumed the throne, but as we had done to the Ataouk, Sol’s sons were slaughtered and death found him before his time. But the plot to overthrow us failed when my father emerged from the tundra to rally the Hemari, savagely exterminated those who opposed him, and married the daughters and nieces of those who did not.

  But it was difficult to believe my father was being challenged. My brothers lived all but imprisoned within the Deyalu with an alsman’s eyes ever on them, and there were so many of us that a rival family could not possibly kill us all. Yet, here was word that the eldest three had been assassinated—another bloody civil war had begun.

  I had just become a tiny pawn in the terrible game. I read the letter again. If Rahan came to Enhedu, my peril would only multiply. I had barely enough men to guard a bridge, much less a crown prince. I would need my imaginary brigades just to make it possible.

  And what of Leger’s expedition? The capital could be closed. Ha. It could be under siege. I would have to hope he survived and returned soon with news. I was not only a pawn, I was blind.

  Rahan’s plea pressed forward. What kind of man was I if I refused
him? What kind of king would I be if a brother so desperate found my doorstep dark and cold?

  Send a gift of silver.

  The lonely falcon rock upon the mantel stared back at me. It would be a very proper gift for a new crown prince. I carried the hefty cube down to the great hall and sat at the writing desk before the warm fire.

  55

  Healer Geart Goib

  The day that I had just one page left to read in my book about farming was a very bad one for Arilas Serm. The summer harvest of his winter wheat was nearly in, and the crop was worse than anyone had feared. Word had moved through the prison that there would not even be enough from the harvest to replant the fields. The proper thing for Harod to have done was plow in the crop, let the fields go fallow, and plant barley the following spring. This was the third year in a row he’d planted winter wheat. The land was very tired. The arilas would have to borrow more just to replant. Even the jailors got really quiet and crept around like mice after we heard the news.

  Soldiers arrived the next morning. They set up tents in the courtyard and stood watch upon the walls. More came. They were a disorganized bunch but managed by midday to send two troops north. A patrol, it seemed, but I questioned what they could accomplish on foot.

  “Harod worries that the same sabotage he has planned for Heneur will happen to him,” I whispered to Avin as I peeked out at the shabby soldiers.

  “Spying on prisoners is one thing, Geart, but Harod’s soldiers is quite another. Come away from the window before someone sees you. Come, you have all but finished, yes?”

  “One half page to go.”

  “Wonderful. Come read it to me.”

  “Aloud?”

  He set a different book on the table. Its spine read Wounds of the Flesh, the Head, and the Viscera. He tapped its cover and said, “I will let you read this book if you can read to me the last page of yours.”