by Holly Taylor
TWO MONTHS LATER, Sigerric, riding across the grassy plain beside Havgan, was thinking very hard about his friend.
Havgan was up to something, something devious, something possibly very, very dark, something Sigerric was still not certain he even wanted to know. But it had become evident to Sigerric some years ago that his task was to save his friend if he could. The trouble was that Havgan did not want to be saved, did not even seem to see the danger that Sigerric saw so clearly.
Sigerric had not wanted Havgan to go to Ealh Galdra, for it was a dangerous place. He was of the opinion that the Old Gods were not as powerless as some would like to think. And though he had seen nothing, and Havgan had said very little, Sigerric had his suspicions that Havgan had encountered something there. But Havgan had refused to discuss it. Indeed, Havgan always refused to discuss the things that troubled him most.
That was a characteristic of his friend that frightened Sigerric—for he had never known Havgan to have the slightest inclination to face the dark things that lurked inside, to even contemplate a journey toward the truths that surely lay buried there.
And Sigerric had often thought that some very dark things indeed lay hidden deep inside his friend. Sigerric had heard men mutter that they were surprised that Havgan, the son of a fisherman, could have such a hold over his fellow warriors, the scion of lords of the Empire. Sigerric could have told them all that though he had no idea whose son Havgan really was, he certainly was not the son of a fisherman. But even Havgan himself was not ready to believe that, so Sigerric had held his tongue—so far.
Catha, Baldred, Penda, and Talorcan rode behind Sigerric and Havgan, their cloaks fanning out behind them, laughing and calling to each other as they raced across the meadow. Overhead the sun shone bright and warm as the heady scent of a summer morning drifted past them in the gentle breeze.
Havgan laughed with them, his hair vying with the sun for brightness, laughter in his amber eyes. He held up his hand, and they all came to a halt.
“So, Havgan,” Catha called, “how in the world did you get Lord Wiglaf to let us go? Blackmail?”
“His winning personality, of course,” Talorcan said. His light green eyes danced with laughter in his thin face. “What else?”
“It was easy,” Havgan replied with a wicked grin. “I promised him that the five of you would do midnight guard duty for the next three months.”
Baldred groaned. “You didn’t!”
“Why, Baldred,” Havgan said with mock dismay, “I thought you would be pleased to be part of the advanced welcome for the Prince.”
“But at what price?” Penda asked theatrically. “We are undone!”
“Truthfully, though, we are very lucky to be chosen,” Baldred said, scanning the east horizon.
“And we will be luckier still if he takes any notice of us,” Talorcan added.
Havgan ducked his head in an attempt to hide his smile at Talorcan’s remark. The others did not notice, though Sigerric did. And that was when he got the barest glimmer that something was going to happen today. He suddenly remembered that twice this week he had gone looking for Havgan, and his friend could not be found.
“Well, old Sigerric here is a good friend of Prince Aesc,” Catha said, slapping Sigerric’s shoulder. “I am certain he would be glad to see you.”
“I will be lucky if the Prince even remembers my name,” Sigerric retorted. “The last time I saw him I was only ten years old. He came to Apuldre and stopped by to visit my father.”
“They are friends?” Havgan asked.
“I wouldn’t go that far, though they seem to like each other well enough. My father says Prince Aesc is a good man.”
“And my brother says that God made a mistake,” Catha said. “Aesc should be the Emperor, not his weakling of an older brother.”
Sigerric frowned at Catha. “To speak so is treason to the Emperor,” he said. “Do not ever say that again.”
Catha’s handsome face hardened dangerously, and his bright, blue eyes narrowed as his hand moved to his dagger. “Do not tell me what I can and cannot say, Sigerric.”
“Stop,” Havgan said softly, his tone deadly for all its quiet. “I will not tolerate arguments among ourselves.” Havgan stared at Catha with his bright, amber eyes, the eyes that held such power, that covered such secrets, that challenged and probed, that caught and held in a fierce, relentless grip. Under their gaze, Catha subsided, his hand dropping away from his dagger.
Sigerric, who happened to be facing the eastern horizon, saw it first. “Look!” he cried, pointing to the plume of dust some miles away. “It must be Aesc and his men.”
“That’s a lot of dust for the Prince and his warband,” Penda said with a frown.
“He must be bringing more men than Wiglaf had thought,” Baldred offered uncertainly.
“He wouldn’t be so rude,” Talorcan said. “He would know that the lords he is visiting would count on knowing the number of men in his escort. And his message to Wiglaf said he would be bringing no more than fifteen.”
“Trouble?” Catha asked, turning to Havgan.
“Trouble,” Havgan replied, his amber eyes intent on the horizon.
“Then we had best see to it,” Baldred said, drawing his ax from his belt.
Havgan grinned, his eyes glinting dangerously. “Yes, we had best see to it.”
He spurred his horse forward and the rest followed, drawing their spears and their swords as they rode toward the cloud of dust. As they neared the place, they began to hear cries carried to them on the wind. The clang of weapons alerted them that there was indeed trouble long before they rounded the bend in the road and saw the melee.
The Prince, identifiable by his byrnie of gold and golden helm studded with chunks of amber, was laying about him with his sword, roaring. The men of his warband were fighting valiantly, protecting their Prince as best they could, though they were clearly outnumbered.
The men they were fighting were lean and dangerous. They wore no byrnies and carried blank shields. Their clothing was plain—brown leather tunics and trousers—and their hair was long and braided tightly to their skulls.
The lack of identification alerted Sigerric immediately that these were outlaws. He was surprised that they would attack what was clearly a formidable group, for outlaws did not generally do so, even when numbers were on their side. They must have been lured beyond bearing by the rich weapons and jewelry that the Prince and his men were sporting. Still, Sigerric thought it very odd, indeed.
And odder still was the expression on the outlaw’s faces when Havgan and his men leapt into the fray and Havgan began to kill the outlaws—swiftly, efficiently, brutally. The closest Sigerric could come to identifying the expression was downright shock at the sight of Havgan and his men.
There were more than thirty outlaws in the band, outnumbering Aesc and his men by two to one. But with the inclusion of Sigerric and his friends, the scales were tipped. For a few moments the outcome was in doubt. But as Sigerric spitted two more men with his spear, as another man went down beneath Baldred’s ax, as Catha thrust his sword into the back of another, as Talorcan speared an outlaw through the heart, as Penda’s ax sheared off the head of one more, the balance shifted.
Havgan seemed to be everywhere, using ax and spear and double-edged sword. Outlaw after outlaw went down in a welter of blood as Havgan flew into the fight like an avenging angel. The one who was clearly their leader called out for his men to retreat, but Havgan cried out that no man was to escape, that they were to pay with their lives for the terrible crime of attacking the Prince.
Sigerric and the others, obedient to Havgan’s wishes, gave no quarter, cutting down the outlaws left and right. Finally, the only outlaw still standing was the one who appeared to have been the leader. He slowly backed away from Havgan’s spear. He turned to run, but tripped and went sprawling. He turned over on his back and lay for a moment, dazed. His eyes lighted on the glittering end of the spear that was aimed straight
at his belly. He raised his dark eyes to behold Havgan’s bright, amber gaze.
Only Sigerric, who was just at Havgan’s elbow, heard what the outlaw said.
“So, fisherman’s son, this is how it ends.”
“This is how it ends,” Havgan said softly as he thrust his spear into the man’s belly. The outlaw’s back arched in agony. As the light fled from the man’s eyes, Havgan jerked his spear from the man’s body.
“You there!” someone called from behind them.
Havgan spun around to find himself face to face with Prince Aesc. The Prince was a huge man. His powerful shoulders strained against his sleeveless tunic of supple brown leather. Golden armbands encircled his huge upper arms. His blond hair, cut short to fit under his helm, was sweat-soaked. His blue eyes, startling with their intensity in his tanned face, shrewdly took Havgan’s measure.
“You and your men are from Eorl Wiglaf, are you not?”
“We are, great lord,” Havgan said, instantly on his knees while the rest of his men followed suit. He bowed his golden head before the Prince.
“I thank you for your timely aid,” Aesc went on. “Get up, sir, for you and your men have done me and mine a great service.”
Havgan rose and Sigerric, Talorcan, Penda, Catha, and Baldred followed suit.
“I believe I know most of you,” Aesc said. “You are Sigerric, the son of the Alder of Apuldre.”
Sigerric bowed briefly. “I am. And I am flattered that you recognize me.”
“You have the look of your father,” Aesc said. “And you are surely Penda, son of the Eorl of Lindisfarne.” Penda bowed and nodded. “And you are Catha, brother of the Eorl of Pecsaetan, and you are Baldred, son of the Eorl of Tarbin.” The two men bowed as Aesc named them. “And you are Talorcan, the son of the Eorl of Bernice.” Talorcan nodded and bowed in his turn.
At last Aesc turned back to Havgan, who stood there quietly, his bloody spear gripped tightly in his hand. “Indeed, the only one of you I do not know is this man who led our rescue.”
“This is Havgan, son of Hengist,” Sigerric said. “He is my foster-brother.”
“Sigerric strains the truth, great Prince,” Havgan murmured. “I was made Sigerric’s servant when I was a lad.”
“And he is now a full member of Eorl Wiglaf’s warband,” Sigerric said.
“Your father?” Aesc asked Havgan.
“Was a fisherman,” Havgan said quietly. “He is now a salt-maker in Angelesford.”
“You are in illustrious company, indeed, son of a fisherman,” Aesc said, his keen blue eyes glittering.
“I am a lucky man, my Prince,” Havgan said humbly, his amber eyes lowered to the ground.
“A man who makes his own luck, I think,” Aesc said.
Havgan swiftly raised his eyes to Aesc, but the Prince had already turned away, calling for his horse. “Lead on, men of Cantware,” Aesc said to Havgan and his men with a smile. “I must go to Eorl Wiglaf and tell him of the valor of his warriors. And I must further ask him if he would be generous enough to give them to me.”
“Prince?” Havgan asked, as he sucked in a startled breath.
“I could not leave such valiant men behind. What, would not all six of you be willing to join my warband?”
Smiles broke across their faces at Aesc’s words. Sigerric himself could hardly believe it. To be in the warband of Prince Aesc was an honor beyond his dreams. He never could have believed that such a thing might happen.
Indeed, Havgan did make his own luck. Sigerric just hoped Aesc would never feel moved to inquire about the details, for such an exercise would be fruitless, as Sigerric had learned long ago.
Tiwdaeg, Sol 10—early afternoon
TWENTY-EIGHT DAYS LATER, Sigerric, Havgan, and the rest arrived in Athelin. The streets of the Empire’s capital were crowded and seemed strange to Sigerric’s country-bred eyes. Merchants and whores, churchmen and beggars streamed down the wide streets, expertly weaving in and out, somehow avoiding crashing into each other as they hurried about their business.
There were mounted men aplenty, some with the sunburst of four curved, golden bars—the device of the Emperor—on their shields; some with the device of the warlord—a boar’s head with ruby eyes. Often Sigerric spotted the tonsured head of a wyrce-jaga and noticed that the people of Athelin gave these men a wide berth.
Though overhead the sun shone brightly in a clear, blue sky, the streets were dim, for much of the light was cut off from the overhanging second stories of the buildings that lined the streets. Brightly colored flowers flowed from boxes set beneath many of the windows.
Sigerric thought back to the night Prince Aesc had asked Eorl Wiglaf for Havgan, Sigerric, Penda, Talorcan, Catha, and Baldred. Aesc had promised Wiglaf that they would be well taken care of as members of his warband. And the Eorl, acutely aware that the Prince was not to be refused, had given his consent and had smiled widely when he did it, slapping the men on the back and congratulating them on their change in fortune. But there had been something in the Eorl’s sharp eyes when Aesc had related the story of his rescue. A flicker of suspicion as he had addressed Havgan, a hint that the Eorl was relieved to be rid of the fisherman’s son.
He caught glimpses of the River Saefern on their left in the small spaces between the houses. The river, dappled with sunshine, glittered brightly in the golden afternoon. Though Sigerric had heard descriptions of Cynerice Scima, the royal palace, he was unprepared when they rounded the corner and he saw it for the first time.
The white, gleaming building was set on an island in the middle of the river, making it seem as though it floated gently on the surface of the water itself. Four tall, graceful spires, roofed in gold, reached up to the sky from the four corners of the square palace. A wide bridge, lined with guards, spanned the distance across the water.
Havgan took a sharp breath at the sight of the palace, his amber eyes glittering with avid hunger as he stared at the home of the emperors.
Aesc turned in his saddle and looked at Havgan. “They call it Cynerice Scima, Kingdom Light.”
“And I know why,” Havgan breathed.
“And you shall know better in a few moments. Come.”
They all followed Prince Aesc across the glimmering bridge. The Emperor’s soldiers who lined the bridge bowed as Aesc passed by. The guards at the huge, iron gates jumped quickly out of the way and bowed down to the ground as Aesc and his party dismounted. Slaves came to take the horses and led them away, as Aesc turned to the Captain who waited quietly.
“My brother?”
“Holding audience, lord, in Gulden Hul.”
“These six men with me are now members of my warband. You will remember them, and give them the deference you give to me.”
“Yes, lord,” the Captain said, fixing their faces in his memory.
“Come,” Aesc said to Havgan and the others. “Come and meet my brother. I sent word on ahead, and he is anxious to meet you all.”
They followed Aesc down corridors lined with jeweled tapestries. Richly dressed men hurried through the hallways, bent on important business, but they all stopped and bowed as Aesc strode by. The Prince often raised his hand in greeting or called out to a few men cheerfully as they made their way to the throne room.
Gulden Hul, the hall of the emperors, gleamed and shone with a soft, golden light. Eight golden pillars, all carved in the form of many-branched trees, held up the towering, golden ceiling. The floor gleamed with golden tiles, and the walls, sheathed in gold, glimmered softly. A huge golden tree stood in the center of the chamber. Jeweled birds nested in its branches, and fruit and flowers of ruby, sapphire, pearl, and amethyst glowed brightly.
Men in fine clothing, with gold armbands and golden rings, with rich, velvet cloaks and fine leather boots, with ornaments braided in their hair and jeweled collars, filled the golden room. Women with fine dresses of silk and velvet in jewel-toned hues, with delicate veils over bright hair held in place with circlets of fine metals, wi
th brooches at their breasts and gems at their ears and throat, laughed lightly as they turned to the newcomers.
Sigerric swallowed hard, for although he was the son of a noble of the Empire, this place awed him. If he was any judge of his companions, they, too, were awed, though they did their best not to show it.
All, of course, except Havgan. The expression in his eyes was not awe at all. It was, instead, a hunger, a lust to possess what he saw before him. Even more importantly, from the spark in his amber eyes, he had seen the way to do so. Sigerric knew from long experience that nothing would stop his friend from gaining that which he was sure he needed to have. For a moment he could almost feel sorry for the royal family who did not yet know what they had let into their palace.
Trumpets sounded then died away, and the jeweled, mechanical birds in the tree began to sing as they followed Aesc, who made his way through the crowded room to stand at the foot of the dais covered with cloth of gold. On the wall behind the dais was a tapestry with the King’s symbol, the Flyflot, worked in gold and purple amethysts. Guards lined the dais, their golden byrnies shining, their axes gleaming, gold ornaments braided in their hair, their faces stern.
The Emperor and his Empress sat on the dais upon golden thrones. The Emperor’s mild, blue eyes gazed down at them. He was pale and slight, and his scant blond hair hung down his narrow shoulders. It almost seemed as though the jeweled diadem he wore was too heavy for his thin neck.
The Empress was quite different from her husband. Empress Athelflead sat with her regal head held high, her light brown hair elaborately braided and encircled with a golden crown. Jewels sparkled from her fingers, her ears, and her throat. Her clear, cold emerald-green eyes rested on Aesc and his companions, but gave no hint of her thoughts.
On a lower step, another golden chair rested upon which another woman sat. She rose at their approach and kissed Aesc’s tanned cheek. She had blond hair, the same shade as Aesc’s. Her eyes were clear cornflower blue, and she smiled at the Prince in welcome. Sigerric guessed that this was Aesthryth, the sister of Aesc and the Emperor, so like was she to her younger brother.
