Aram was beginning to find the man’s imperious behavior offensive. “I understand,” he answered shortly.
At Aram’s stiff tone, Edwar glanced over at him but said no more.
The hall was in fact one very long, wide room, with extremely tall windows at intervals along the distant walls. Above these windows at a height of perhaps twenty feet, there was a railed balcony, and above the balcony there were more windows that reached to the ceiling, which arched high overhead. Thick support beams stretched from wall to wall through this space, and in the ceiling above them, there were intermittent skylights. Equidistant between the central open area where they walked, and the distant walls to either side, there were two rows of seating. Already many of these seats were occupied; Edwar had evidently allowed some of the citizenry to enter before Aram and Ka’en arrived.
At the far end of the hall, there was a raised dais that extended across almost the whole of the space. In the center of the dais was a high-backed chair. Ornate and overlain with silver, it was in fact more a throne than a chair. A very thin, rather tall young man sat perfectly straight in the center of this throne, his arms upon the side rails of the throne, unmoving. His head was up, and he gazed unblinkingly toward a spot high on the rear wall of the hall, above the entrance.
The Hay of Lamont.
Behind him, against the back wall, reaching from floor to ceiling, stood a silver-clad statue of a man in armor, his right hand on the hilt of a sword whose tip rested on the floor of the dais, with a shield buckled on his left arm. A golden circlet adorned his head. The statue’s face seemed vaguely familiar.
To the right of the gleaming throne, on Aram’s left, and a bit forward of it, there was another high-backed chair, made of soft, golden wood, with pale blue upholstery. A woman sat in this chair, her hands folded in her lap. Small, slightly built, with golden hair similar in color to the polished wood of which her chair was composed, she watched Aram and Ka’en come forward. As they walked closer, her eyes rested for a moment on the hilt of Aram’s sword, and her gaze flicked to Edwar. She gave a slight shrug of her shoulders, her eyebrows moved, and then she shifted her attention back to Aram and Ka’en. Aram caught the look that passed between this woman – undoubtedly the Dame Regent, for no one else sat or stood upon the dais – and the captain.
Two shrewd people, he thought, standing to either side of this purportedly strange young man. There is perhaps a question as to who really governs in Lamont.
There were two small groups of robed officials, both men and women, standing on the main floor to either side of the dais, leaving the area immediately before the Hay and the Dame Regent open. There were no other chairs – evidently one stood while making petition to the Hay of Lamont.
“Here, sir,” Edwar said quietly, and Aram stopped.
The captain of the Hay’s swords moved one step away to Aram’s left, and raised his voice. “Your Grace, this man is named Aram, Prince of Wallensia, a land to the west. He is accompanied by Princess Ka’en, his wife, and Muray, son of Commissioner Eoarl Thissel of the Westlands, whose letter was shown to you this morning.”
He moved away and went forward to stand below the Dame Regent’s chair. Her eyes watched him as he came forward, and there was an odd spark that shone in them for a small instant. Then she looked up at Aram.
“Lord Aram, welcome,” she said. Her voice was small and soft, like that of a young girl, but it was underlain by a steel-hard edge. “Welcome, both you and your lady, to the Great Hall of Condon.” She paused and smiled at Ka’en, and though that smile was wary and unquestionably official in nature, Aram had the odd feeling in that moment that it could, in time, become genuine.
She moved her attention back to Aram. “What is your petition, Lord Aram of the plains, to His Grace, the Hay?”
Aram opened his mouth to speak to her, but she moved her head and flicked her eyes briefly in the direction of her son. Remembering Edwar’s instruction, Aram faced the young man. And he was a young man indeed. His age was hard to discern, for he was clean-shaven, or perhaps he was yet too young to grow a beard, and he was very finely featured and slim in build. But even seated, he appeared tall; Aram estimated that if he stood, the young man might very well look him straight in the eye.
“Your Grace, I have come to your hall to speak with you on a matter of commerce. My principality is not poor, indeed we have gold with which to trade, but we have no currency with which to conduct daily business, such as the buying and selling of goods and services. It was my hope –”
He paused as the Dame Regent held up her hand. “Forgive the interruption, Lord Aram, but – how can your land have concerns such as these and yet possess no currency of your own. Is yours a new principality in some way? For I was made to understand that Wallensia is an ancient land indeed.” Once again, by way of reminder, she inclined her head slightly toward the throne in the middle if the dais.
“It is a very ancient land, Your Grace,” Aram answered, looking at the Hay, who continued to gaze placidly at a point high and far away on the entrance wall. “But until recently, much of our land and many of our people were under the heel of the grim lord, Manon, who enslaved most of our people long ago and nearly destroyed our way of life. We have pushed his armies back now, however, and have made ourselves free. But though we have land and goods and capable people, we no longer possess the means to conduct the business of civilization, either among ourselves or with our neighbors. Currency, of several different values, is what I seek.”
When Aram finished speaking, the eyes of the slim, quiet, young man on the throne dropped toward him, locking with his for one brief moment. Aram was startled by the intensity in those eyes, though none else in the room seemed to notice. After that tiny instant, the Hay’s gaze snapped back upward and fixed again on the distant wall. His head had not moved and the expression on his face did not change. Aram realized that the Dame Regent was speaking again.
“– that we mint this coinage? We have the means if you desire it, but such a thing is not quickly done, and payment must be made, at least in part, before the process is commenced.”
Keeping his eyes on the Hay, Aram answered. “This is my preference, and payment in advance is not an issue, Your Grace.”
“And what superscriptions will be placed on the various denominations? Have you a list?” The Dame asked.
Again, the eyes of the Hay, sharply blue, and clearly intelligent, locked for a brief instant with his. What is the story here? Aram wondered.
Aram shook his head. “I do not. Perhaps, if there is no sanction against such a thing, we could employ the superscriptions that are found on the currency of Lamont? That would, perhaps, facilitate commerce between our land and other nations.”
The Dame Regent laughed quietly. “A wise decision in my opinion – but I must say, Lord Aram, that it is also an unusual one.”
“Why so, Your Grace – if I may ask?”
She laughed again. “Most of the princes of other lands that seek this service of us have very clear wishes as to that which appears on their money. Usually, it is the prince’s own image that is preferred.”
Aram smiled. “I understand, Your Grace, but there is no such desire here. The currency of Lamont will be sufficient to serve our needs.”
At this, the Hay slipped from his throne and stood up, straight and tall, and looked directly down at Aram with his intense, ocean-blue eyes. The occupants of the hall gasped. The Dame Regent half rose from her chair, and then became a statue, staring at her son like a startled bird, frozen in the moment of taking flight.
The Hay cocked his head to once side as he gazed down at Aram. Frown lines, so fine that they were barely distinguishable, lightly creased his forehead.
“I am told,” he said, in a quiet, pleasant voice, “that you once defeated an entire army, single-handedly, without aid. Is this so?”
Aram stared back, surprised both by the abrupt change in protocol, and by the subject of the Hay’s question. How coul
d this young man know anything of the circumstances of that autumn day upon the rolling plains before the walls of Derosa – more than three years ago, and hundreds of miles distant from his hall? He glanced at the Dame Regent, but she simply gazed at her son in wonder, and seemed oblivious to any other presence. Edwar exhibited outright astonishment. Aram returned his attention to the Hay.
“No – not alone. I had the element of surprise on my side, Your Grace,” he answered carefully. “And my friend, Thaniel – and some others – were there as well. The enemy did not expect us, and we fell upon their flank.”
The Hay smiled. “So the tale is essentially true.”
“Because the element of surprise aided our attack,” Aram repeated, and then he frowned. “May I ask, Your Grace, how –?”
The Hay held up his hand. “Please, sir, I beg of you – do not spoil my surprise.”
29
Ignoring the stunned silence in the hall, the Hay continued, “Lord Aram – I am Jame. Like my fathers before me, the governance of this land falls to me, as that of your land rests upon you. I am honored to meet you. Be assured that I will give instruction to begin the minting of your currency immediately. How much will you require?”
Aram again took note of the sense of incredulity that had swept through the hall and then met the Hay’s eyes. He motioned for Muray to hand him one of the meshed bags of monarchs. Working the top open, he stepped forward, and slid the contents onto the dais at the Hay’s feet.
“As much as this will purchase, Your Grace” he answered and then he indicated Muray standing behind him. “And I have another as well, if needed.”
Jame glanced down at the pile of gleaming gold. “Fifty-five monarchs,” he said, and he laughed quietly. “Rare coinage indeed – never have I seen more than two of these in one place at one time. There is no need to present another, Lord Aram. These will more than supply your need, I assure you – and then only if your need is very great indeed.”
Aram stared at the piled coins. How had the Hay discerned, in a moment of time, that there were exactly fifty-five? It was an accurate count – Aram had checked the contents of several of these bags; and there were always fifty-five. He looked up as the Hay spoke again.
“How will you transport such an amount, Lord Aram?” The young man seemed genuinely concerned. “Did you bring oxcarts with you for this purpose?”
“No, Your Grace, but there are horses with me.”
“Ah! I have heard of these creatures of legend – specifically of Thaniel, the warrior just mentioned – and I pray that you will allow me to look upon them before you go.” He shook his head. “But no, you will need two or three oxcarts, and a pair of oxen each. You may purchase them, if you like, or I will lend you of mine.”
Not another soul moved, or seemed to even breathe, in the hall. The Dame Regent melted back into her chair, trembling, her hand upon her mouth.
“My son –?”
Jame held up his hand. “In a moment, mother. I have business to discuss with our guest.”
“But you’ve never –”
He looked her way and smiled gently. “Shall I tell you a truth, mother? Can you bear it?”
She gazed back at him with trepidation, but there was also the beginning of a sudden, glad light in her eye. “You may tell me whatever you wish, my son.”
He looked at Edwar. “Clear the hall, captain, if you please, except for Lord Aram and his lady – and Muray. And then return.”
Edwar, who had been frozen in amazement, hesitated only a moment. “At once, Your Grace.”
When the hall had been emptied of its astonished citizens, and the large entrance doors closed, Jame turned toward his mother. “I am the Hay indeed, as my fathers were before me,” he said sternly, and then his voice softened. “But I do not particularly enjoy the mundane business of governance. In fact, though I love my people, I do not enjoy their company – or any company, truth be told. You, mother, and good Edwar here have acted ably, competently, and honestly on my behalf – and I assure you, will continue to do so. But not today – Lord Aram is a different matter.”
“How, Jame – why?” She asked. “Why is this matter different?”
He looked at Edwar. “Bring up chairs for our guests, and for yourself, that all may sit.”
When this was done the Hay also sat, glanced at his mother and then looked at Aram.
“Three evenings ago,” he said, “I walked in my gardens. I was alone, as always,” he smiled slightly, “for I enjoy – nay, I prefer the undiluted solitude of my own company. As I walked along the path by the fountains, a figure appeared before me. I thought it an illusion, a trick of the light – but then it spoke to me.”
Vitorya looked sharply at Edwar. “Someone entered the grounds of the Hall?”
Jame smiled and waved his hand dismissively. “No, mother, there was no intrusion. It was a spirit.”
“Jame, a spirit –?”
“I did not dream it, mother,” – his voice hardened – “nor was it an illusion, as first I thought.”
He gazed down at Aram. “It was your father, Lord Aram.”
Aram stared, stunned. “My father?”
Clif – or, rather, his spirit – had come here, to Lamont? How was such a thing possible? Joktan had promised to come – but had he sent Aram’s father instead?
The Hay smiled wryly – and intuitively – and continued. “I should perhaps clarify that it was one of your fathers.” Crooking a finger over his shoulder, he pointed behind him, at the statue that dominated the hall. “It was him, our ancient king – Lord Joktan.”
Vitorya gasped, Edwar stared, but after a moment, Aram nodded to himself and relaxed, and none of these variously expressed attitudes went unnoticed by the clever young man on the throne.
He gazed at Aram. “You are not surprised.”
Aram shook his head. “No, Your Grace. Joktan said that he would come here, to discover what had transpired in this land since his death. I did not know that he would speak with you, however.”
“He did speak with me,” the Hay confirmed. “He told me that his direct descendent, a man named Aram, would arrive at my city, mounted on horseback, within the week. And here you are.”
Edwar came slowly to his feet, looking from Aram to Jame. When he spoke, his voice was underlain with doubt and suspicion. “Your Grace, are we certain that there is no trickery involved here?”
Jame laughed. “Forgive the captain his suspicions, Lord Aram – it is his job to be suspicious, after all. No, captain, there was no trickery. I am not a fool. I asked the king for a token of the truth of his presence in my garden – and it was provided to my satisfaction. You will necessarily have to accept my word on this matter, however.” His voice hardened as he stated this last, and though Edwar still eyed Aram with rank suspicion, after some hesitation, he nodded his respect to the Hay and returned to his seat. Jame turned back to Aram. “Your ancestor, our ancient protector, has not left the earth, though he was slain. His spirit did indeed walk my garden three evenings past. King Joktan is still in the world, and he insists that he will remain until your work is finished.”
His quiet voice went even quieter. “What is this work of which he spoke, Lord Aram? And how may we assist you in it?”
“He could only mean the struggle against Manon.”
Jame nodded slowly and gazed down at the floor. “Manon, yes. I will tell you that the king corrected my understanding of history on one essential point. It has always been generally believed that Joktan defeated Manon in the last great battle, ushering in an age of peace. He informed me that this was never so. The truth is, in fact, terrible – that Manon slew Joktan before the walls of his own city, and then slaughtered his people. It was Kelven that reduced the grim lord upon the mountain, though it cost him his life. But Manon survived and has arisen to trouble us again.”
He looked up at Aram. “All of this is known to you, is it not?”
Aram nodded. “Most was told to me by the ki
ng also. Some, however, was imparted by Florm, the lord of horses.”
Jame stared at Aram curiously. “Your ancient mother escaped due to the actions of a horse named Florm, did she not? And this is how you come to stand before us today. Joktan told me of this.”
“Yes.”
Jame frowned. “And you have spoken with this horse? He yet lives?”
Aram nodded. “He accompanied me on this journey. He waits outside your walls even now.”
Jame leapt to his feet in excitement. “I must speak with him! Will he grant this?”
“Of course.” Aram smiled and stood also, but the Hay laughed and waved him back into his seat.
“Nay, Lord Aram, not until we have completed our business here. I will speak with one legend when the other is satisfied that I have met his needs.”
“The other –?”
“You, my friend.”
Aram balked involuntarily at this and Edwar leaned forward, frowning, and dared to interject his thoughts. “I have never heard of this man,” he stated flatly, indicating Aram, “nor has anyone else, to my knowledge. How can he then be described as a legend, Your Grace?”
Jame’s eye strayed to the object protruding above Aram’s shoulder, and then he looked at Edwar. “Have you ever known me to allow weaponry in this hall?”
“No, Your Grace – it was ever your first instruction to me.”
“And yet my mother informed you most clearly that no attempt should be made to relieve this man of his sword when he came before me.”
Edwar nodded slowly. “I dared to ask the Dame Regent for clarification on this matter – twice.”
“And her answer?”
“That you gave this instruction with vehemence.”
Jame smiled slightly. “Would you like to know why I did this?”
Edwar chewed at his lip, uncertain. Asking a direct question of the Hay was something done only with extreme caution, and – always before – only through the Dame Regent. But this was a day of disturbing marvels and stunning surprises.
Kelven's Riddle Book Three Page 30
