Aneirin smiled humorlessly. “I’m sorry, Hector, but it won’t be that easy. It has been many years since the Wrack—the fall of the empire. Even if the Library had not been sealed from the inside, I am not sure its entrance would be accessible after so much time.”
Hector was crestfallen. “Then is there any hope?” he asked. He expected a negative answer.
“Yes,” Aneirin replied firmly, “There is. My father did not leave us without clues. He constructed a secret passage into the Library; its entrance is somewhere in the city.”
“Somewhere?” Hector echoed with a grimace.
Aneirin nodded. “He also left us a map, but not with me. But I do know how to find it.”
Hector smiled again, his youthful hope conquering the dejection that threatened to overtake him. “How?”
“In the mountains to the east, there is a small pass. It will take you out of this valley and leave you near a broad river, called Freewater by the locals. That river will take you to Fylscea. But before going to the capital city, stay on the river’s northern bank. You will come to hill country, where Freewater will turn to the south. North of those hills is a forest. Among those trees, you will find an idyllic clearing, and in the exact center of that clearing is an obelisk. That is where my father had the map inscribed.” Aneirin smiled confidently. “I know it doesn’t sound like much, but that will be enough. Trust the gods to lead you.”
Hector nodded. “I do. Besides, you’ll know what to look for when we get there, right?” He was excited by the prospect of an adventure with the great lord who was rumored to watch over his people—over him, he realized.
But Aneirin’s smile faded. Hector did not miss the expression. “You’re not coming with me, are you?” he asked.
Aneirin shook his head slowly. “I can’t, Hector. I have work to do here. Derek is coming to destroy your tribe. They must be made ready for war.”
Hector’s breath grew more rapid. “But,” he stammered, “but what if I run into trouble? I don’t know how to fight. I can’t go alone. I don’t know what I’m doing!”
The Guardian lord placed a comforting hand on Hector’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Hector,” he said, his voice deep and soothing. “You won’t be going alone. I’ll see to that.”
Hector did not know what that meant, but for now, he was able to trust that it would be revealed to him in due time. “Thank you, milord,” he said softly.
Aneirin nodded. “Of course, Hector,” he answered. “I know you must have questions. You are welcome to ask them.”
Hector swallowed, even though his mouth was dry. Slowly, he ventured, “I do have one.” He glanced at Aneirin, whose expression invited him to ask it. “What are the Blessed Blades of the Emperor?” he ventured, “How are they supposed to help?”
The Guardian explained, “There are three blades, each of them blessed by the gods. The largest is a two-handed spatha, a longsword built for strength and reach. There is also the gladius, a short sword for close-quarters combat. The smallest is a curved dagger, a last line of defense. They were built by the priests of Astor, and the Champion made them deadly. Through her priestesses, the Caretaker made them eternal. And through his priests, our god-king made it so that none but the Emperor could wield them. They are the symbols of the Empire. Every Emperor in the history of Fylscea has worn them, even in times of peace.”
Realization dawned on the young heir. “So if I’m wearing them,” he said, “then by right, I’m the Emperor. Derek won’t be able to dispute my rule.”
Aneirin cautioned him, “The blades are powerful, Hector, but they cannot change a man’s nature. Derek and Drystan will do everything in their power to see you destroyed and Derek crowned. You will not be invincible. Derek must be defeated in combat, or he will never stop.”
Hector nodded slowly. That prospect troubled him, and fear nagged at his heart. True strength was elusive, but Hector put on a brave face and smiled at his Guardian.
Aneirin stood and gestured for Hector to do the same. “Start getting ready,” he suggested, “Pack light. Focus on dense breads, cured meats—things that will last. Bring an extra coat. And don’t worry,” he repeated, “Everything will be alright.”
Hector nodded. He had no trouble believing that it was true, that everything would be alright. Aneirin was confident, and he was powerful, and if he thought that Hector would be fine, then Hector trusted him, even if the boy did not quite trust himself. He took a deep breath and replied, “Okay.”
Rhoda reentered the house, followed by two others. Hector grinned when he saw his friend, Doc, and his love, Bronwyn.
Aneirin smiled, too. “It looks like your first companions have arrived.”
“Companions?” echoed Bronwyn.
Doc frowned. “What do you mean, milord?”
Aneirin looked at Hector. The boy was slack-jawed, wide-eyed, and a smile teased at the corners of his open mouth. The Guardian said, “A man must be surrounded by his friends, if he is to survive. But I will let Hector explain further.” Turning, he added to Hector’s mother, “In the meantime, Rhoda, would you walk with me?”
She smiled obligingly and nodded. The two of them exited silently while Hector began relating the tale of his heritage to his friends.
Once they were outside, Rhoda and her lord directed their steps toward the house of Lord Cyrus XI. Aneirin apologized softly. “I am sorry, Rhoda, that it came to this. I had hoped that Hector would have more time, perhaps that he would not be needed at all. That he could have lived a normal life.”
The dark-haired woman shook her head, a rueful smile gracing her lips. “Even before you came here today, milord, I knew that Hector could never live a normal life. That boy has always been obsessed with destiny. That’s why he has never done well in his apprenticeships. He wants so earnestly to do something great that he would never be satisfied doing something good.” She laughed a little. “And have you seen the way he pines after that girl? I don’t think he was ever going to tell her his feelings, the way things were going before. At least, not before it was too late.”
“And now?” Aneirin asked, his tone hinting at his amusement.
She glanced at the Guardian and found comfort in his silver eyes. “If he travels the world in search of his heritage, defeats a warlord, and saves his people, and he never tells Bronwyn how much he loves her, then he doesn’t deserve her.”
Aneirin laughed, but the smile did not reach his eyes. When he spoke again, sadness crept into his voice. “I pray that it is such a foregone conclusion.” He glanced at Rhoda. “I am sorry, too, that I was not there to save Abram.”
She looked at him with an expression that ridiculed his repetition. “You have said that before, milord, many times. My husband was a good man, and I mourn his loss, but I do not blame you. He knew what he was doing.”
They were passing the town guard barracks. In the yard, six men were training with swords, slaying the air. Rhoda continued, “Hector, however, does not. He practiced a great deal to enter the town guard, but he was never dedicated to it. I fear that he is not ready for a real fight.”
Aneirin nodded. “I know. That is why I am not sending him alone. I will have Lord Cyrus order one of the guard with him, a wise man with great skill. He will train Hector along the journey.”
Rhoda smiled. “Thank you, milord,” she said genuinely. She stopped as they reached the foot of a hill. At its crest stood the house belonging to the lord of the Alkimites. Rhoda bowed to the Guardian. “At your leave, milord,” she requested.
Aneirin bowed in return. “Of course, Lady Rhoda,” he answered. “Aulus with you.”
“And with you, milord.”
When Rhoda was gone, Aneirin turned and began to climb the steps leading up to Cyrus’ home. The large house doubled as the Alkimites’ center of government, so there were guards coming and going alongside suppliants and couriers. It seemed Cyrus was having a busy day—but his other business would have to wait.
As Aneirin ent
ered the house, he was immediately accosted by a dark-haired man in a warrior’s leather raiment. “Lord Aneirin,” the man called, “I must speak with you.”
“Another time, soldier,” Aneirin replied, “I have urgent business with Lord Cyrus.”
“I assure you, milord, you need to hear what I have to say,” the man persisted, “Lord Bayl sent me to find you. It’s about the invader, Derek.”
Bayl’s name caught Aneirin’s attention. He turned to look more closely at the strange man. He was no Alkimite, Aneirin recognized. He reprimanded himself for not seeing it sooner. “What is your name, man?” the Guardian asked.
“Brynjar,” the dark-haired man replied, “My name is Brynjar.”
“Of the Drengari.” It was not a question.
Brynjar acknowledged, “Yes, milord.”
Aneirin nodded, a smile drawing at his lips. “Come with me, Lord Brynjar,” he said, “We have much to discuss.”
They climbed a half-dozen steps and passed through a wide threshold. Three guards stood at attention on their left and on their right as they entered the court of Lord Cyrus. The graying chieftain seemed haggard, beleaguered. He set his hoary face upon one hand, that elbow leaning heavily on the armrest of his chair. He was flanked by a tall warrior, who had a long sword belted to his side. The warrior stepped forward; Aneirin recognized him as Cyrus’ chief bodyguard, a brave and righteous man called Draus.
Draus called out, “Who enters the court unannounced?”
Cyrus waved his free arm wearily. “Quiet down, Draus!” he exclaimed. The hand holding up his jaw shifted to massage his forehead. “Whoever it is can speak. I am tired of standing on ceremony today.”
“Lord Cyrus,” Aneirin addressed him boldly.
The Guardian’s unmistakable voice snapped Cyrus to attention. The lord straightened his back and adjusted his posture. “Lord Aneirin!” he responded, a false smile spreading across his face. “I was not expecting you.” He stood, gesturing at the table behind him. On it were several platters of meat, some cattle, some fowl. “Please,” Cyrus entreated, “Help yourself, milord, and rest from your travels.”
Aneirin smiled. “You do well, milord, for as they say, from Kyros are all strangers and beggars—and, a man ought to treat a guest and a suppliant as though he were his own brother.” His tone hinted at his displeasure to find Brynjar, a foreign suppliant, unmet and untended, but he did not reprimand the Alkimite lord. After the cold destroyed so many crops, his folk were in the midst of hard days—with more yet to come. Aneirin bowed his head slightly. “But I am not here to feast, milord.”
Cyrus sat back down awkwardly. “Of—of course, milord,” he stammered. Glancing at Brynjar, he gestured again. “Perhaps you, milord?” he offered.
Brynjar looked to Aneirin, who nodded. The Drengar hurried to the table and tore into a makeshift meal. The warrior was famished from his own journey, but Cyrus had not seen to his needs. The gods would not be pleased; but Aneirin hoped to assuage their ire before their displeasure cost the Alkimites everything.
Cyrus turned back to Aneirin, believing his duties as host fulfilled. “How can I help you, sire?”
Aneirin spoke softly. “Have you heard of the advance of the Leonites?” he inquired.
Cyrus nodded slowly. “Yes, milord, I have heard some passersby speak of wars to the south. Do you fear they are approaching the Valley?”
Aneirin nodded once. “They are, Lord Cyrus. The Alkimites are in grave danger, and they cannot stand alone. It is essential that we raise an army from these lands to stand against Derek and his soldiers.”
Draus was a proud warrior. He interrupted, “If these Leonites dare attack our Valley, we will defend it to our last breath!”
Cyrus gestured for the warrior to calm himself, but Aneirin addressed the fellow directly. “That is precisely what I fear, man. You will fight to the death, and it will be your death. Then Derek will lay waste to your village, ravage your women, and steal whatever remains. Is that truly your wish?” He glared evenly at the warrior. “Or would you prefer victory?”
Draus scowled. His injured pride sought vainly for strength. “The Pass of Anthea will slow his forces. We shall ambush them in the Valley, and we shall crush them.”
Brynjar interrupted around the leg of a turkey. “My people, the Drengari, we believed as you do,” he said, his voice echoing the pain that his memory wrought. “Lord Bayl was convinced that we could defeat the Leonites with our cleverness and our mastery of blade and bow. But the Leonites do not march alone.”
Cyrus’ interest was piqued. “Do you mean the gods walk with them?” he asked.
Brynjar shook his head. “Not the gods, but the gods would not do them much better.” He returned the turkey leg to the table unceremoniously. “They have united with a tribe called the Ferites, fierce warriors, and brave. The Ferites do not fear any man, and they have no reason to. There are no warriors in all the lands that can stand against them.”
“Let us pray you are mistaken, Lord Brynjar,” Aneirin said pointedly. He did not think any man worthy of the claims of gods.
“There is more, Lord Aneirin,” Brynjar said sharply, unaware that the Guardian already knew the strength of Derek’s forces. “Standing with the Leonites and the Ferites, in every battle, is a Guardian lord, like yourself.”
“A Guardian lord?” echoed Cyrus, his voice cracked with astonishment. “Lord Aneirin, can this be? Are we betrayed by your own brethren?”
“Do not ask him, Lord Cyrus!” Brynjar snapped, his temper besting him. He stormed across the court to shout his anger into the faces of the gathered lords. “I have seen it with my own eyes! The Guardian of the Leonites slew Lord Bayl, my master and mentor! He was as a father to me, and the Traitor cut him down like a mongrel!”
“Brynjar,” interjected Aneirin, “calm yourself.”
“I want my vengeance!” the warrior roared.
“You will have it!” Aneirin countered. “One way or another, Drystan will make recompense for his crimes.” Turning to Cyrus, he continued, “And yes, milord, my brother Drystan has turned against us. But we are not without hope. Within your own tribe flows holy blood, the Fylscem blood.”
Cyrus frowned, as if remembering a tale from long ago. “The Fylscem… the old empire?” he asked, his expression far away.
Aneirin bowed his head. “Yes, milord. The boy Hector is heir to that empire.”
“Hector?” Draus spat with a laugh. “You cannot be serious.”
“I must confess, my lord,” Brynjar added, “I met Hector in the street by chance. He was weak, timid, and disrespectful. I do not think he is a wise choice.”
Draus sneered. “The boy is useless.”
Aneirin looked at Draus again. The proud warrior withered under the Guardian’s silver glare. “That boy,” Aneirin said harshly, “is our only chance to defeat the Leonites, and their allies, before we are all enslaved or killed.” He looked at Brynjar. “There is no choice in this matter, Lord Brynjar. Hector has talent, and he has trained well, but he needs to be honed. He needs guidance. He needs a mentor.” Brynjar bowed his apology.
Aneirin continued, “Hector must travel east, to find the Blessed Blades of the Emperor. Only then can he defeat Derek and save our people. And a warrior must go with him.”
Cyrus nodded slowly. He knew better than to argue with the Guardian. “I will send my finest,” he said agreeably. He gestured to Draus.
“Actually,” Aneirin interrupted the act, “I want Lord Brynjar to go.”
“Me?” demanded the man. “But I belong here, with the army, fighting the Leonites. I have seen them fight before. You will need me.”
Aneirin shook his head. “No, Lord, Hector needs you. You are a wise woodsman, and an excellent swordsman. He needs your will and your strength. You must keep him safe, and train him with the blade.”
Brynjar took a deep breath and sighed. “As you wish, my lord,” he answered reluctantly.
*
The 20
40th year of the Sixth Era
The third of the month of Anthemen
Late in the ninth hour
Several hours later, Aneirin returned to Rhoda’s house with Brynjar in tow. The good woman directed the lords to Hector’s room, where the boy was finalizing his rucksack. He was alone.
“Hector,” Aneirin addressed him, “I believe you have already met Lord Brynjar.”
Brynjar bowed, though he still doubted Hector’s respectability. Hector looked up from his packing and bowed in return. He was hesitant, and a sour look crept across his features.
The foreigner saved him the trouble of objecting. “Lord Aneirin believes,” Brynjar said, “that you would be best suited to my tutelage in matters of woodcraft and swordsmanship. He is adamant.” Using his right hand, he swore an oath. Placing his open palm against his hip, he raised his hand until it bisected his face vertically; he paused briefly, then lowered his hand sharply to his left breast, palm inward and fingers pointing to his left. It was the sign of Ariane, and any oath sworn by it was only broken under penalty of condemnation. “I pledge that I will do all in my power to train you and protect you on your journey, Lord Hector,” Brynjar swore.
“May Astor give you this strength,” Hector responded according to rote. Even without a tribal Storyteller, the responses of oaths, along with the rest of the Code of Lords, were drilled into Alkimite children from their first word. Hector knew what Brynjar’s pledge meant: he could only be released from it by Hector’s word, or by death. It was not a responsibility that the boy took lightly.
“Are you almost ready?” Aneirin asked, providing a welcome change of subject. “The four of you should depart as soon as possible.”
Hector nodded, glancing at his rucksack as if its fabric would warn him that he had forgotten something. “Doc and Bronwyn said they should be ready by the eighth hour.”
Aneirin smiled, replying, “Excellent. You should be able to reach the forests by nightfall. That will leave you two days’ good march from the eastern pass.”
The Chimaera Regiment Page 3
