Ghost in the Yew: Volume One of the Vesteal Series

by Blake Hausladen

  “You are nine useful recommendations away from being named my envoy and having the authority to make decisions in my name. It’s like being an alsman but without the prestige or responsibility of having to report everything I do to Lord Vall. It pays about half as well, too.”

  He did not react as I expected to the mention of the tremendous income, not at all, in fact.

  “You’ll probably want to say no to Gloos,” he said thoughtfully, instead, and tapped on the proposal from the miller. “I am still not convinced his mill will survive the season—and now a wind-powered threshing machine? He is going to get someone killed.”

  “You have concerns?”

  “I do ...” he said, then asked thoughtfully, “So, I have the authority to make the man prove this out to me?”

  “Yes. As far as I am concerned, nothing in those pages happens until you are satisfied.”

  “Hmm, fascinating,” he replied absently, still reading, and bowed a second time.

  As he made his way down, the Dame came in to collect the refuse from a pair of meals I had no good memory of eating. It was nice, though, not to suffer her criticism. Dia came down soon after with eyes as tired as mine and pulled me by the hand to bed.

  The morning came in a flash and started badly, first to an unfamiliar banging in the town and then to the caw of a raven. I woke next to a lusty Dia, still before the dawn, and after it to an empty bed and my demonstrative lieutenant. It was also the third day in a row I woke with a pain in my knee. Complaining to the Dame about it during breakfast earned me criticism for the way I sat on my leg during the long hours of the day.

  And with that as prelude, the balance of the day proved to be a vulgar, drunken bully.

  “Choose,” was all Gern said after the meal, Rahan’s letter in one hand and my manual of sword in the other.

  “How do you mean?”

  “You have no morning, my lord. It has been remarked that the quality of your day is decided by how it begins.”

  “You mean how well.”

  “No, sir. It does not seem to matter what you are doing or how much you enjoy it, just how you are up and to the task.”

  “Or so it has been remarked.”

  “Often, sir. Yes.”

  “So why present me with options at all?”

  “That was discussed as well, but since it will be for me to see your day begin precisely, I thought it best to let you choose what happens first and which second.”

  Fuming and curious all at the same time, it was only the girls above and the Dame nearby that kept my ire from fomenting into blistering rage.

  “Fine,” I snorted without asking what either would entail for my day, and chose my manual.

  He led me out to waiting horses, and we were out to Ojesti and riding south through an impressive maze of stinging nettles and thick spruce. Hordes of spotted black butterflies ruled the place, and the friendly insects landed anywhere on horse or man that would hold still for them. They were all brushed away, though, when we pushed west through the intertwined branches of a tight cluster of evergreens and rode into a camp tucked between three gray knuckles of tall, ancient stone.

  The place was impressive—more of a village than camp. Ten buildings identical to Sahin’s shop in Urnedi lined the rock face at the front end, each with the makings of shields, bows, and spears beneath and sleeping spaces above. Opposite these was a pair of wide barracks, a well, and a grain barn—undoubtedly filled with food and feed provided by their families. West of the camp, a half-company of men waited at attention in a pine- and bramble-edged practice field. The forward two of the six troops bore shields and spears, and behind them stood two more troops with bows at the ready. On either side were the senior men and the men from my garrison—thirty horsemen atop speckled grays, wearing the helmets and chainmail from the armory. Their uniform tunica and overcoats were in excellent order, and smart flags flapped loudly atop the spears the sergeants held. The long triangles were divided into two equal horizontal bands, black over green. And Sahin, promoted to captain it seemed from the tall white crest upon his helmet, held an acorn-black standard that was sewn with the company’s motto. In stark white stitching, the six symbols of the priest’s language declared brazenly:

  * * *

  Silent, the forest grows

  an ending for its enemies

  * * *

  Without pomp or fuss, I was treated to a review of the skills Leger had beat into them, and I dare say that even without proper armor, they were a match for any like number of Hemari. Each movement was uniform, tight, and punctuated with restrained calls. I did not recognize their call at first, and was unnerved when I did. The harsh syllable was a word from their flag, spoken in the language of Bayen’s priests.

  “Parsh,” was their call, and the Zoviyan in me withered from the promise of an ending, of death in every man’s eyes.

  It wasn’t until they were finished that I began to discern what the selection of my manual would mean for the day. I saw it first in the faces of the men in the forward rank. They looked nervous, expectant. They were sweating, their breathing was too fast, and their posture and expressions threatening violence. They reminded me so very much the young men who had lined up with me to earn a falcon rock for sword or spear.

  Gern’s quiet calm was startling in the comparison. He pointed the men into place before me. “Of our number,” he said, “these ten won the right to ask you to duel. If you will consent to it, those who can win one straight touch of three against you will become your personal guard.”

  I almost laughed at the thought that any of them could manage to touch me with a sword if given a year’s worth of trying, but like Gern, something about these men kept me quiet.

  I felt very young then, not knowing what it was. My father would have known—Kyoden better than he.

  I nodded instead and donned the thick leather shirt I was offered. The first man stepped forward to face me. He drew and presented his sword. Any questions I had about their understanding of dueling with bared blades were set aside by his precise presentation. I bowed, drew mine, and in a deference I had never before shown to any man, I presented my blade to him. A bow and salute later the doe-faced Enhedu boy—no older than I was the day of my banishment—came forward looking as certain of my defeat as the rising of the sun. I parried and slapped his forearm. The second touch was faster, and on his last he tried a daring charge. It failed, but he seemed rather pleased and received a resounding cheer from the men. Looking back, I saw he’d made me retreat a good seven paces. In a battle of men in line, my retreat was not possible.

  The next three let their nervousness get in the way, and whatever skill they had failed to set me back even one pace.

  The next two were the brother swineherds from the garrison, the runner-up and winner of the summer’s wrestling contest. They had proper nerve. The ranks cheered when the first of the pair saluted me, but his sudden blood-curdling bellow struck the crowd mute. And like an angry Akal-Tak, he charged, halting as I retreated, and circled me at a run, gnashing his teeth and screaming as if he were mad. I turned and backed another two paces as he charged again but stumbled straight into his brother who had not backed out of the way. I tumbled sideways and felt a sudden and solid smack upon my shoulder. The ranks roared, and I spun around to protest.

  “One straight touch,” Gern called, indicating my opponent. I ground my lip between my teeth. Straight touch? How had I missed that? It was the way Hemari dueled, not gentleman. There was but one rule to straight touch—defend yourself at all times. My anger very nearly had me cursing the man, but the sharp salute he sent me after the touch put me off my ire. He had good form to go with his crude trick.

  The elder brother stepped forward, and I was instantly unnerved by his countenance. Swordsmanship and killing were different things, and the flat, dead expression of Enhedu’s wrestling champion had me well-focused upon the rules of the contest. Leger had taught them how to fight and kill, and there were things
to it that dueling gentleman would never do.

  He came at me as fast as his brother, but low, so low he had no guard at all and touched his free hand to the ground as he came. Then, pushing himself up, he flung a tuft of earth at my face. I ducked but too slow, and the wet, loamy mass hit me square in the forehead and sprayed sand in my right eye. I managed to parry his blade but forgot the man behind it. His charge carried forward faster than I could retreat, and his mass slammed into me and his offhand snatched my elbow.

  I stumbled but got my back foot set and reared up to smash him with a punch, but his pivot continued, and all his weight pressed me down and back. My punch missed, and we crashed backward—his weight smashed all the air out of me. I coughed helplessly and tried to get ahold of him, but my sword arm was pinned beneath his left knee, while his left hand and right elbow had slid up to take hold of my hair and press up under my chin. I got my off-hand inside his right arm, but he was only too willing to pull his elbow up, and in a flash the contest was lost. He rose up and tapped me on the forehead with his blade.

  The ranks murmured, and Gern called the touch. The man helped me up as I coughed and blinked, startled by the crowd’s reaction.

  It was the result they had expected.

  I could scarcely believe it, but my surprise and arrogance were foolish. Kyoden would have chuckled at the sight of me—ignominious in defeat instead of gleeful at my alsman’s accomplishment. He had made soldiers of them all, and they were each given to it entirely. That was what was different about these men, and I understood then why my father had always shown such deference to the Hemari and Kyoden to his Chaukai. These were men who would kill and be killed in my name, men who believed my success was success for their families. They were not starting careers that required a term of service, nor had they joined to satisfy their families or earn Yentif gold. They had given themselves entirely to the business of killing in the name of Enhedu. It was terrifying, and the rest of the ten proved it out.

  I was wary of each young face, and they happily took advantage, pushing me around the field, using every trick they could. I dodged more sod, one man’s helmet, and barely fought off one pointed charge after another. One man tried to steer me over a knuckle of stone, and the second to last left his chest exposed as he came with sword held wide. I tapped his sternum as he came, but my blade clunked off the heavy breastplate concealed beneath his leather vest. He slapped the side of my arm painfully, and Gern called the touch to the man. I was forced to concede it and was so determined not to lose to the last man that I was still getting myself together when the wooden dagger concealed in his offhand flashed forward and smacked painfully off the thigh of my forward leg. Gern called the touch, and the greencoats came in to congratulate the victors.

  Four. I had lost not once, but four times. I suffered this as best I could, trying hard to keep in mind that these four were going to be standing between me and anyone who came to kill me. So powerful was this thought that by the time Gern led the five of us back to the keep, I was rather comforted by the killers who flanked me.

  Gern wore a grin the whole way back, and, clever lad that he was, he did not leave me the opportunity to seek revenge for my many bruises. He led me from beekeeper, to carriagemaker, to baker, to bootmaker, to smith so that each could voice their needs and concerns. When the time came for the evening meal, he turned me over to the Dame.

  They left me to eat in peace, and it was a remarkable thing—managed because of my proven childishness, revered for my skill, and listened to because of, well, more than my title I hoped.

  Waiting for me beside the basket of warm oat bread was Rahan’s letter, an ink stone and brush, and the pages of my attempted replies. I lit a few candles against the evening’s growing darkness, and I had my invitation to Crown Prince Rahan all but composed when Gern appeared again.

  “I hesitate to interrupt you this time, my lord.”

  “Your judgment, Lieutenant, I am learning to trust more than my own. What is it?”

  “A man arrived from Bessradi yesterday requesting an audience with you. I have refused him several times, but he continues to insist.”

  “Who is he?”

  “His name is Selt. He is seeking work.”

  “Then he should see the mayor or Sahin.”

  “I told him that, my lord, but he is very persistent. He claims he used to be in the employ of one of your brothers.”

  My brow creased. I was not so forgetful of the details of Rahan’s letter that it did not occur to me what darker tasks this man Selt might have been sent to accomplish. I retrieved my sword from the mantel and began to put it on.

  “Escort him up.”

  Gern bowed and returned with half his garrison and the man in tow. Selt was an average-looking Zoviyan, fit and muscled. His dress was richer, though, than I had seen in some time—better than even the carriagemaker’s. Nothing about him said he was an assassin, but who could say what one looked like? My brothers had been killed with poison. A child could plant poison. I suppressed a shudder.

  “He is unarmed,” Gern informed.

  “Lord Prince,” the man said with the deepest bow, “I thank you for this audience and apologize for disturbing you and your men. My name is Selt Sestar. I come with hopes of adding my name to the list of those who serve you. I have brought my credentials.”

  He did not make a move to withdraw them. There was no doubt, at least, that he was from Bessradi.

  “Gern,” I prompted, and the lieutenant retrieved the document from the man’s vest. The letter was sealed with a Yentif stamp.

  * * *

  The 38th of Summer, 1195

  * * *

  Brother Barok,

  Please consider the bearer of this letter a man of superior skill and intellect. He served as my bondsman for many years, most recently as my senior scribe and defense against a parade of self-serving alsmen. He is a Chancellery-trained scribe of the highest quality whose perfect understanding of letter and numbers is well complimented by an almost unnatural passion for the law. He possesses, also, a rare wit and humor that I found refreshing for a man whose livelihood is by nature tedious.

  * * *

  It is my fondest wish that you will consider him for a similar post and hope that Alsman Mertone will look upon his addition as a compliment rather than a challenge. Both myself and bondsman Selt hold him in the highest regard.

  * * *

  With respect,

  Crown Prince Rahan

  * * *

  My eyes snapped up onto the man, and I bit back several quick questions. Selt’s arrival meant that Rahan was dead and had died just after writing to me. I sat near the warmth of the fireplace and gestured for Selt to join me. Gern stayed close and motioned the rest of the men out of earshot—a Hemari officer to the letter. My mood, however, could not be improved by Gern’s ever-apparent skill.

  “How did Rahan die?” I asked the former bondsman.

  The man had to force out the words. “An arrow, Lord Prince. He died quickly.”

  “Recount the days for me. I have received no other news from Bessradi.”

  “None, my Lord? Do you know of the palace fire?”

  “What fire? Speak quickly.”

  “It happened eight days after the poisoning. It started in one of the cellars along the Deyalu, spread through the palace and a quarter of the city.”

  “Bessradi burned? What of the princes?”

  “Lord Prince, I am sorry. The fire claimed most. After the poisoning, bars were put on all the windows and the cellar doors were sealed. Very few princes of age survived. Rahan’s night guard broke his arm and then his leg bashing a way through the bars big enough for us to escape. The prince and I got out just in time, and we lived in a carriage for five days before an arrow through the window pierced his face. They had him in the ground before the sun came up.”

  I could not believe it and fired questions at the man despite the tears showing in his eyes. “Who is responsible? Which famili
es have declared their rebellion? What of my father?”

  “Vall was not in Bessradi when it happened—was in Urmand for Prince Yarik’s parade review at the academy. He remains there still, protected by the Hurdu, but no rebellions have been declared and no armies are on the move. No one knows who is responsible.”

  “Who is crown prince now?”

  “Prince Evand. After him, there are just a handful left of age—Yarik, then you, and two others barely of age who were not at the palace when it happened. The rest are all infants who were small enough to be thrown through the bars. I am not sure of their number.”

  I was suddenly third in line for the throne. It did not make any sense to me. The images stirred by his words were too arresting. The terrible crime begged my next question. “I know nothing of Evand. Could he be responsible?”

  “Who can say for sure? He has barricaded himself with a full brigade of the 5th Hemari Division within a fortress so far to the east it is almost in Havish. But when I left, he was still there, trying to stay alive. Rahan and I joked that you might be responsible, but of all the Yentif, you are the only one he was sure of—especially after hearing of the sanction Kuren laid on you.”

  “Rahan said as much in his letter. My reach is rather—limited. It was kind of him to write a recommendation for you.”

  “I wrote similar for all of the servants.”

  “You wrote them?”

  “Yes, Lord Prince, it is the way of it. Once Rahan learned I could write, he had me scribbling all his correspondence.”

  I chuckled. “He did warn me of your wit.”

  “He liked to work with those of a similar mind, my lord. You knew him?”

  “Only of him. I was far too junior to ever move in his circle. I could not even say what he looked like. What made you want to come to Enhedu?”