“That may be,” Koren said as he put the arrow back in the quiver. “If you wish to shoot men in the back, you can do it yourself.”
“Ah,” the guard spat in the road, disgusted. “Who are-”
“You?” Another guard, coming from the other side of the wagon, said in an astonished voice. “You!”
Koren turned. At first, he did not recognize the man. Blood streaked the guard’s face, and his leather jacket had a slash across the chest. The man had put on weight, healthy muscle. But mostly, he did not recognize the man because he was standing upright, proud and tall, in decent clothing. And because his breath did not stink of whiskey. “You!” It was Koren’s turn to be surprised.
“You young pup!” The man had to hold onto the wagon, so great was his shock. “I thought you were headed to the South Isles, last time I saw you.”
Koren managed a smile, despite the post-combat reaction that had his hands and knees shaking. “I did. I did go to the South Isles. They were as beautiful as you,” he remembered the man telling him that he had never actually been to the South Isles. “As you had heard they were.”
“What happened?”
“I had to come back,” Koren searched for an explanation that was not an explanation. “Unfinished business.”
“I know all about unfinished business,” the man nodded slowly. He set his sword back in its scabbard and offered a hand. “Bjorn Jihnsson. Formerly with the king’s guard of Tarador, and now, I’m here, with this lot.”
Koren shook Jihnsson’s hand, and had to catch himself before he blurted out his true name. “Kedrun Dartenon. Formerly of, I don’t know-”
“Formerly of a warehouse on a dark night,” Jihnsson laughed heartily. “Aye, and before you, I should say I was formerly at the bottom of a whiskey bottle.”
With the bandits on the run, Jihnsson vouched for ‘Kedrun’, not that any of the surviving guards had any question about the stranger’s value in a fight. They buried the two dead guards in the meadow, and buried the dead bandits together in a shallow pit; no one felt like digging deep into the rocky soil to properly bury thieves and killers. The wounded on both sides were treated as best they could, perhaps the injured bandits were not given the gentlest of treatment. That hardly mattered, as the bandits knew they would be taken to prison, or worse. The chain was removed from the roadway, dragged into the meadow and dumped into a pond where it would not be used to cause mischief in the future.
As the wagons rolled along at the best pace the tired horses could manage, Koren rode alongside on Thunderbolt, conversing with Jihnsson while the man sat atop a wagon. “This,” Jihnsson said, pulling a coin from a leather pouch that hung around his neck, “is the coin you gave me, on that dark night.” The man held onto the coin tightly between thumb and two fingers, so tightly that the skin of his thumb was white.
Koren was surprised. “I thought you would have spent it by now.”
“Spent it on drink, likely,” Jihnsson remarked with bitterness. “Aye, I would have. But this,” he held the coin up and inspected it closely, “changed my life that night, Kedrun. You changed my life. Whether you meant to or not, I don’t know. But I haven’t touched a drop of whiskey or any other hard drink since you gave me this coin. I won’t spend it, I will not part with it. But,” he hesitated, “if you want it back, it is yours.”
“No! No, you keep it,” Koren responded to the look of fervent devotion in the man’s eyes. The eyes of a man who had lost hope, and now found it again. Such a man would do anything to keep that new-found hope. The coin was a symbol that had changed the man’s life for the better; Koren did not remember himself fervently wishing the coin would bring the man good fortune. That night, he had been caught up in his own concerns.
Jihnsson put the coin back in its pouch and tucked it into his shirt. “Where are you going from here, Kedrun? We’re headed to a village up the road a bit, we’ll stop there for the night at least. Then we’re going on into Winterthur, up north there.”
Koren concentrated on picking another burr out of Thunderbolt’s mane, giving himself time to think. Winterthur was one of Tarador’s northernmost provinces, and it lead to the dwarf lands. He would either go through Farlane, where they were, or through Winterthur. “I am headed north, into the dwarf lands,” he said in a near whisper.
Jihnsson raised an eyebrow. “The dwarves? You have business there? Ah, forget I asked. Your business is your own. Kedrun, I am not ashamed to say that you saved my life that night. I was headed for ruin, and now,” he thought a moment. He had been a member of the king’s guard. Now he was an ill-paid guard for a stingy merchant. “Now I have hope. The mountains up north can be dangerous, even if the dwarves allow you past their borders.”
Koren was startled. He had never considered that the dwarves would not allow travelers into their homeland. “They have closed their borders, Mr. Jihnsson?”
“Since Acedor moved forces to Tarador’s border, word is the dwarves are protecting their own lands. You’ll need permission to cross into the mountains. And don’t call me Mr. Jihnsson, call me Bjorn, please.”
“Mister-”
“Kedrun, you saved my life, twice. It’s Bjorn. And if you mean to cross into the dwarf lands, I will go with you. Westerholm is no place to be traveling alone.”
“You don’t have to do that, Bjorn,” he stumbled over the name.
“Yes,” Bjorn said gravely, touching the coin inside his shirt. “I do.”
Bjorn kept his word not to ask what business ‘Kedrun’ had with the dwarves, but his curiosity about another subject needed to be satisfied. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”
Koren had an answer ready; the same story he told to the crew of the Lady Hildegard. It had seemed to satisfy the curiosity of sailors. He shrugged. “With a bow, I never miss, I never have. Later, I was apprenticed to a weapons master. He said I had potential, if I could unlearn my bad habits and have the discipline to practice properly.” That was exactly what the royal master of weapons in Linden had told Koren. Even at the end, after months of instruction and endless sparring practice that left Koren shaking with exhaustion, the weapons master had expressed despair that Koren’s technique was raw and amateurish. It was only the speed and skill of the spell Paedris cast upon Koren that allowed him into the sparring ring. Aboard the Lady Hildegard, Koren had kept up practice with ‘forms’ as best he could, though painfully slowing down his motions so as not to draw unwanted attention to himself.
“What happened?”
“The weapons master was not pleased with me,” Koren said with a grin that he hoped would end the conversation.
“Ah, hah!” Bjorn laughed. “Did his displeasure involve his daughter?”
“No!” Koren protested, startled by a question he hadn’t anticipated.
“Oh, come now, Kedrun. With young men like you, if there is trouble, you can be sure there’s a girl involved somewhere along the way.”
“There was a girl,” Koren thought wistfully of Ariana. “Not the weapons master’s daughter. Another girl,” he shook his head at Bjorn, indicating that discussion was closed.
“All right, then,” Bjorn took the hint.
Koren nudged Thunderbolt, and the horse trotted ahead of the wagon, where Koren rode alone. He had not allowed himself to think about Ariana in a long time, although thoughts of her came to him unbidden every day. When that happened, he pushed her from his mind. It did him no good to think about the crown princess of Tarador, a young woman whose life he had put in danger because of his jinx curse. Even thinking about her, Koren feared, might bring harm to Ariana. There had been a time, a blissful all-too-brief stretch of weeks spent in a tropical paradise, when Koren hoped that he had left his curse well and truly behind. There had been no dangerous or strange incidents during his time aboard the Lady Hildegard, or in the South Isles in general. Somehow, Koren had dared hope, his jinx had not followed him past the shores of Tarador.
His hopes were dashed that fateful morning, when the sunri
se revealed a pirate ship had found Koren’s ship in the night. An ink-black, stormy night, when by all odds, the pirate ship shoud have lost track of its quarry. Instead, in all the broad sea, the pirate ship had not only been in sight of the Lady Hildegard, it had the advantage of being upwind.
After that harsh slap in the face, Koren was determined never again to dismiss the power and reach of the curse upon him. He was a danger to everyone around him, he always would be, and there was nothing he or anyone else could ever do about it.
For the remainder of the day, Koren rode alone, stone-faced, forcing himself not to think of princesses, or the future beyond the next day. Bjorn, too, was in danger from Koren’s curse. Koren decided right then that he would accept the help of the former king’s guard to get across the border into the dwarf homeland, but no farther. Bjorn Jihnsson now had hope, and Koren would not take that away from him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Regin’s new admiration for the crown princess did not extend to trusting her word on important matters of state. After Kallron and Forne wrestled with the wording of a betrothal agreement, Duke Falco came back to Ariana’s apartments in the royal palace. Walking through the wide, opulent corridors of the palace, Regin realized that he would soon be spending much time in that ancient building. Hopefully. If the forces of Acedor had not captured Linden by then.
Falco and Forne arrived at Ariana’s study, where he found the official royal scribe waiting, along with the princess and her chief advisor. Until he saw the scribe, Regin had feared the agreement would fall apart, that Ariana would change her mind when the reality of marrying Kyre Falco hit her.
“The document is ready,” Ariana pointed to a scroll on the desk. The scroll was the heavy parchment of official state documents, held down by gold weights on the four corners. On a side table were ink bottles and pens, ready for signature. And the royal scribe had his official seal, to witness the signatures. “The royal scribe will first examine the contract for legitimacy. Then Duke Falco and I will sign, and the scribe will witness.”
The royal scribe nodded formally, and approached the table, burning with curiosity. She had been summoned to the princess, without being told why. From where he had been standing, she was too far away from the table to read the fine script of the document, so she had no idea what type of agreement she would be witnesses. When she read only the first paragraph, she gasped with shock.
“What?” Falco demanded.
The scribe looked stricken. Her face pale, she turned to the crown princess. “Your Highness, I fear that there is a complication. As the official scribe, I have already entered into the royal records a betrothal agreement for you.”
“What?” Shouted Ariana, Falco, Kallron and Forne in unison.
The scribe, her hands shaking, bowed again. “I beg your pardon, Highness, but your mother- the former Regent Carlana,” she used the official title, “signed a state document agreeing to your betrothal to a prince of Indus, in exchange for financial guarantees and assistance for Tarador. And military aid from the Raj.”
“My mother sold me?” Ariana screeched. She could not remember ever being so enraged. “Why wasn’t I told of this?”
Before the scribe could answer, Regin turned to Kallron. “You were the woman’s chancellor. What did you do?” Regin should have anticipated Kallron’s treachery.
“I did not know,” Kallron responded, shaken. He was not surprised that Ariana’s mother would have hidden such an agreement from him, given his divided loyalties between the Regent and Ariana. “I would like to see this document. When was this agreement signed?”
“At the end of winter, Master Kallron,” the scribe cringed under Kallron’s withering glare. I witnessed the signing of the agreement between the Regent and the Bey of Begal.”
“Can mother do that?” Ariana was fairly shaking with rage.
“To give a short answer,” Kallron said flatly, “yes, she can. As the Regent, she has authority to make binding agreements with foreign governments, on behalf of the state. In this case, Your Highness, you are the state.”
Regin Falco regretted not being able to bring guards with him. And regretted that he was not allowed to carry a sword. “Kallron, I find it difficult to believe-”
“I did not know,” Kallron declared. “Toward the end of my service as chancellor, the Regent became concerned that my loyalties were, by necessity, divided between her and the crown princess. I am not surprised that the Regent hid this agreement from me. What does surprise me,” he said with a glance at the still-cringing royal scribe, “is that I did not learn of it anyway.” Were his skills slipping? Had he grown too old? The Bey of Begal had abruptly departed Linden in early spring. Kallron should suspected something. At the time, he was dealing with too many crises to consider the possibility of yet another. “Highness, as Regent you can certainly void any agreement made by your predecessor. There may be a price to pay, with the Raj, for violating a signed agreement of state.”
“The Council will fully support you overturning that betrothal agreement,” Regin stated emphatically. No one on the Regency Council would approve the idea of the crown princess marrying a foreign prince; not even a prince of the powerful Indus Empire.
“That will be my first action as Regent,” Ariana said through clenched teeth. “Then I will deal with my mother.” She sighed. “My first act as Regent will be to break a treaty with our most powerful ally. Scribe, review the document, we must sign it quickly.”
“Yes,” Kallron agreed. “And then, I really must insist on seeing the agreement with the Raj.” Hopefully, he could find a way out. If not, he could at least assess how much trouble Tarador would be in, for breaking a signed treaty.
The meeting of the Regency Council was brief but dramatic. Duke Falco opened the proceedings by nominating Ariana for the Regency. Few people were surprised; Falco had spoken to Duchess Rochambeau before the meeting, and Kallron had sent messages to the other four provincial leaders who were eligible to vote. The person most surprised was Carlana Trehayme; she left the Council chambers immediately after the vote for her daughter to replace her. Mother and daughter did not speak, they barely looked at each other.
Ariana quickly thanked the members of the Council, except for Duchess Rochambeau, and the new Regent hurried away for a pre-arranged meeting with Captain Earwood. “Captain, oh, please get up,” she said to the kneeling soldier, “we don’t have time for that formality. Please signal Grand General Magrane that he may prepare for, and conduct, his counterattack in whatever time and manner he thinks is best.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” said a greatly relieved Earwood.
She pointed to a map of western Tarador on the table. “I will also be ordering the Royal Army to pull back behind the Turmalane mountains in Demarche.”
Earwood’s face reflected his astonishment. The new Regent wished Magrane to push the enemy back across the border in Anschulz province, but she was abandoning the western third of Demarche province? “Your Highness?” Earwood didn’t know what else to say.
“Duchess Rochambeau of Demarche voted against me as Regent. She will see there is a price for being stubborn.”
The Royal Army captain could not believe what he was hearing. Were all of the army’s hopes about the new Regent for nothing? “Highness, if the Royal Army were to pull back east of the Turmalane ridge, the enemy would surely strike across the border there. Between the border along the River Fasse and the Turmalanes, there is nothing but flat, rich farmland in Demarche. Acedor will soon be across the river in Demarche, and there will be nothing to stop them from forcing their way through passes in the mountains.”
“Yes, I know,” Ariana ran a finger along the mountains on the map. East of the Turmalane range was a broad valley, with only shallow rivers to act as barriers to the enemy horde. Beyond that, the enemy could range freely throughout Tarador. The prospect of sending an army over the Turmalane mountains would be very tempting to the enemy. “I am counting on it.”
“We need ambition, Lord Salva,” Ariana declared, stabbing a fingernail onto the map for emphasis. “What do you need from me?”
Paedris resisted the urge to stroke his beard while he was thinking. Pondering the distance from Linden to the Turmalane mountains, his eyes followed the roads. There was no road that led there directly; a detour to the south was necessary. “Time, Your Highness. Time is needed simply to get there, then to prepare. And, I think, we will need the services of Lord Mwazo to make this work at all.”
“Mwazo?” Ariana asked in surprise.
Paedris nodded gravely. He knew Cecil Mwazo was not considered a great wizard by those without magical ability, because Mwazo’s power did not manifest itself in fireballs or other shows that Paedris considered mostly frivolous. “Yes. Truthfully, if Cecil cannot help us, I do not see any chance of your plan working. The enemy has far too many spies, both here and in the spirit world. Your plan requires the utmost security to succeed.”
Cecil Mwazo froze, a spoonful of soup halfway to his mouth. Carefully, he set the spoon back in the bowl, not trusting himself to keep the liquid from spilling on his clothes, the way his hand shook. “Paedris, could you repeat that, please?”
Paedris smiled gently, knowing he had delivered a terrible shock to his longtime friend. “Can it be done?” He knew Cecil had heard him correctly.
“I have long thought it possible,” Mwazo had to admit he was as intrigued a she was frightened. “You understand the risks? I will need you to lend your power.”
“You shall have it, gladly.”
“I have never done this, you understand.”
“I understand.”
“Dirmell once tried-”
Transcendent (Ascendant Book 2) Page 25
