Stolen Crown
Page 12
And craftsmen and shopkeepers stirred through the streets and prepared for the oncoming day.
And a stillness blanketed the village just as did the morning fog.
All of this the lads noted without comment in passing, for it was like other dawns when they and Da Conal and Mother Gretta and some of the hands had brought beef and pork to the market.
And now they were taking a roebuck to the butchery, hoping for the coppers, perhaps even a silver, it would bring.
“You turned him right past me,” said Rígán.
Alric nodded. “I ride better. You shoot better.”
“Someday I’ll catch up,” said Rígán.
“Ha! You think so. Mother tells me that I am a born Vanadurin, and we are riders supreme. But you, you are just a Pellarian.”
“A Pellarian who can shoot the eye out of a partridge in flight,” shot back Rígán. “Let me see you do that.”
Alric’s voice took on a portentous tone, and he said in Sylva, [“’Tis not seemly to brag, little one.”]
Both boys broke out in guffaws, and Rígán said, [“Yes, Alor Halon, armsmaster.”] And they broke out in laughter anew.
They rode a bit farther and then Alric said, “What say we stop at the tea room and have a bracing cup?”
“We did sneak out before sunup,” said Rígán, “and I could use a scone or two.”
“With clotted cream!” exclaimed Alric.
“And red-berry jam!” added Rígán.
“We’ll put it on Da Conal’s tab,” said Alric, “and pay him back with what we get for the deer.”
As they were making their plans, a form darted through the fog and across the street in front. It was a dark-haired girl, about their age. She skidded to a stop before them and smiled and dipped in a curtsey, and then dashed on, heading into the milliner’s shop.
“What was that all about?” asked Rígán, staring after her.
“I don’t know,” said Alric. “Maybe she’s daft.”
Rígán laughed. “Well, to curtsey to you she’d have to be.”
They passed by the cooper’s, where out to the side at a small forge Rolf was heating an iron hoop for a herring keg. They called out a hello and Rolf waved at them, and they rode on.
“Oh, look, Alric, a tinker’s cart,” said Rígán, as they rode past the gaily festooned canvas-covered waggon. “We’ll have to tell Mother Gretta. Perhaps she has a pot or two needing mending.”
“Or knives to sharpen,” said Alric.
On they rode, not noting the black-bearded man who leaned out from the cover to watch the two lads disappear into the fog.
Finally they came to Tessa’s; her tea room was still closed.
“Rats,” said Alric, “I was looking forward to a—”
“Here she is,” said Rígán, looking back over his shoulder.
Bearing a lantern, the light blooming in the drifting vapor, a tall blond-haired woman hurried along the wooden walkway, mist swirling in her wake.
Rígán hopped down, followed by Alric. They tethered the horses to the hitching post, and, unshouldering their bows, up to the stoop they went.
“Well, well, but haven’t you grown,” said Tessa as she reached the lads.
“I’m right at six stone seven,” said Rígán.
“And I’m just under,” said Alric.
“And we are now taller than the armsmaster,” said Rígán.
“He’s four foot ten and I’m four nine,” said Alric. “Rígán and me, I mean. Not Armsmaster Halon.”
“Ninety-one pounds and o’ertopping a Dylvana? I’m impressed,” said Tessa, who herself stood some five foot eight, tall even for a Fjordlander-Kellian woman.
“Here now,” said Tessa, “hold this lantern as I unlatch the door.”
“As you will, my lady,” said Rígán, placing one foot behind the other and bowing.
“Your wish is our command,” said Alric, grinning and bowing also.
Tessa laughed and handed the lamp to Rígán and said, “My, but aren’t you the princely ones. Your court manners are impeccable.”
“Mother Gretta is teaching us,” said Rígán.
“Not that we are ever likely to be at court,” said Alric, “pig farmers that we are.”
“You never know, pig farmers or not,” said Tessa. “But whether or no you ever are there, it’s good to see that someone in this town has manners. Many could learn from your mother. I mean, all the women in town say you two are ever the nicest. You both should be proud of that.”
“Yes, ma’am,” they mumbled in reply.
The latch gave way, and as they went in, Tessa said, “You lads light the lanterns while I stir up the stove and put the water to boil.”
Shucking their bows and quivers, Rígán and Alric went about lighting the lamps, filling the place with a cozy yellow glow. By the time they were done, Tessa had the fire going, and so she set them the task of laying the tables. When that chore was finished, Tessa asked, “Now what can I do for you two handsome warriors?”
“Tea, please,” said Rígán.
“And scones,” said Alric.
“With clotted cream,” added Rígán.
“And red-berry jam,” said Alric.
Laughing, Tessa said, “Coming right up, as soon as the kettle boils.”
The boys took seats at one of the just laid tables.
“What’s new at the farm?” asked Tessa.
“Not much,” said Rígán.
“With Alor Halon’s help, Durgan is training Steel for combat,” said Alric.
“Combat?”
“Aye.”
“Well, what with the Northern Alliance getting ready to go up against the Usurper, I shouldn’t wonder if it doesn’t come to that,” said Tessa.
For some unknown reason, at Tessa’s dour words Rígán’s heart skipped a beat, or so it seemed to him. This talk of an oncoming war and the search for a suitable heir was a daily conversation in town and on the farm as well. And neither Conal nor Gretta nor Driu nor Armsmaster Halon ever spoke of just who this rightful heir might be. Even the tutors who lectured on royalty and the history of the nations—their foes and wars and alliances and treaties—did not seem to know who might replace the Usurper, should the Alliance win, though many thought it should be someone from the royalty of Jord, while others held it should be a prince from Riamon. After all, those were the nations involved at the root of the dispute, and given that Arkov of Garia had overthrown Valen, he had forfeited any right to the crown.
To change the subject, Rígán said, “We got a buck.”
“I saw,” said Tessa, spooning tea into a pot, and then pouring hot water over it. “I also saw that you met Caleen.”
“Caleen?” asked Rígán.
“Well, you didn’t actually meet her.”
“The dark-haired girl in the street?” asked Alric.
“That’s the one. A pretty little thing, she is, too. She’ll be a stunner when she grows to a lass. I shouldn’t wonder if you’ll both be chasing after her, along with all the men in the village.”
“Us? Chase after a girl?” Rígán shook his head.
Tessa merely laughed.
“Besides,” said Alric, “she’s daft.”
“Daft?”
“Didn’t you see how she stopped and curtseyed?”
Again Tessa laughed. “At that age, every girl hopes to meet a prince. And so, to bob a curtsey at passing . . . um . . . warriors upon a high horse, such as yourselves seem to be, well, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“She’s new in town?” asked Rígán. “I mean, there are not many dark-haired girls in Sjøen, or so it seems.”
“Ah, lad, you are just like every man. Looking for one who is an exotic stranger, rather than the beauties he sees every day.”
Ríg�
�n shook his head and turned to Alric and murmured, “Girls.”
The tea having steeped enough, Tessa poured and then fetched a plate of scones along with a small bowl of clotted cream and another of red-berry jam.
“Hers is a sad tale,” said Tessa.
“Whose is?”
“Why, Caleen’s. About nine moons past in the middle of the night, she and her aunt washed ashore. Thrown from a Jutlander ship, she said, the aunt, Britta, I mean. Her husband slain, she herself repeatedly ra— er, treated badly, and then, like fodder tossed to the cattle, she and little Caleen were pitched into the sea. Fortunately, they managed to catch hold of some flotsam, and the tide brought them to Sjøen. The men who found her took up axes and shields and set out in a Dragonboat, but the Jutlanders were long gone. And so any revenge must wait till another day.”
“Jutlanders,” spat Alric.
Rígán remained silent, and spooned some more cream and jam on his scone and took another bite.
Tessa sighed, and then looked at the boys. “Ah, me, but I didn’t mean to spoil your bit of a nibble and all, what with the talk of Jutlanders.”
“You didn’t,” said Rígán.
A silent moment or two passed, and finally Alric said, “We passed a tinker’s waggon.”
“Aye. He came down the north road just yestermorn, looking to fix any pots and pans, sharpen knives and scissors and the like. And he has a goodly supply of needles and thread, and a bit of cloth.”
“Mother Gretta might be interested,” said Rígán.
“I’ll tell him,” said Tessa. “He’ll be glad, for he was asking around for news of anyone who had come in the years since last he was here—looking for new customers, I suppose—though for the life of me I can’t remember him at all. Perhaps he didn’t have a beard then.”
• • •
JUST AFTER DAWN, Driu cast her runes to see what this foggy day might bring. Frowning, she took up the five stones and put them back in the bag. After shaking them again she said a
Moments later, out in the barn: “Conal, where’s Rígán? Alric?”
Conal looked up to see a harried Driu. Then he glanced down the row of stables to see two empty stalls. “Ahorse somewhere.”
“They said they were after a stag,” piped up Cuán. “Rode out way before dawn.”
“Then find them,” snapped Driu. “Peril looms.”
• • •
TAKING UP THEIR BOWS AND QUIVERS, Rígán and Alric bade their farewells to Tessa and stepped out into the early morn, the sun just then peeking over the forest to bring light to the yet drifting fog, though down in the street it was still enshadowed.
Appearing out from the dimness, a bearded man grasping a long-knife stepped before the two lads. His gaze flicked from one to the other, as if momentarily confused, but then he grabbed the closest, Rígán, by his jacket and snarled, “Princely ones, eh? Let me see your shoulder, boy.”
“Sir?” Rígán jerked back, but the stranger held fast.
“Your shoulder,” the man snarled again. Then he raised his knife for a slashing throat-cut. “Ah, Neddra, I’ll just kill you bo—”
Thock!
A white-feathered arrow sprang forth from the man’s left eye, and he pitched over backward, jerking Rígán down atop him, the man dead before he hit the ground.
A shrill scream sounded nearby.
Alric nocked a second arrow and spun to his right. There stood Caleen, her hands clasped to her terrified face.
Behind Alric a door banged open, and Tessa rushed out from the tea room.
Rígán finally broke the man’s death grip and jumped up and backed away and turned about to see Alric with a nocked arrow, the lad’s face gone ashen in the lantern light.
• • •
THE SUN HAD RISEN a hand or two and the fog was nearly gone, when riders, weapons drawn, thundered into the streets—Dylvana, Conal, men from the farm, Durgan in the lead on Steel.
They had come to rescue the boys.
20
Enlightenment
Throughout the Eras, birds have been trained to swiftly bear messages from one place to another. It is easiest to teach these messengers to travel a one-way flight—that is, from wherever they find themselves to wing from that place to their home cote. So, usually the birds are carried in cages to a remote location, and when they are released they simply fly home, just incidentally carrying the message to a receiver at the far end. Yet with persistence, a good trainer can teach the bird not only to fly from a distant location to home, but to also fly back to that faraway point.
Typically pigeons are given the task; rock pigeons from North Gelen are especially good at it, as are their kindred from the distant Islands of Stone. But at times a pigeon bearing a message falls victim to a bird of prey, or to a hunter’s arrow or sling. To better ensure that dispatches get through, other birds are taught to be bearers of tidings as well, birds that do not easily become quarry, birds such as falcons, kestrels, and goshawks, and the like. Usually, though, these raptors can be pressed into service only by Magekind, yet there are a few particularly gifted trainers who also can succeed in turning these hunters into carriers.
Too, in the far north in a long chain of dark mountains lives a black bird known as the Grimwall Corvus. It is a strange bird, a raptor, one that at times does its master’s bidding by bearing messages from place to place. And so it must be included in the number of carriers, yet never has anyone but a person of Magekind ever compelled this particular bird to heed to the task.
In the tenth year of the Usurper’s reign, a swift pigeon with a coded message in a capsule tied to its leg set out from the Island of Kell. The message was simple and reported a fiasco, with the recommendation that someone better skilled at execution be sent on the mission rather than another agent like the ham-fisted ruffian who had failed so miserably to carry out an undemanding task.
Not long after that missive arrived at Caer Pendwyr, a Grimwall Corvus flew northward, aiming for a distant tower. The black bird bore quite triumphant news, for the message noted that the failure meant the recipient’s plans would once more begin moving apace.
Yet at a pig and cattle farm back on Kell, the root object of the messages stood in disbelief. . . .
• • •
“WHAT?” HE ASKED. “What did you—?”
“I said, the man was an assassin sent by Usurper Arkov, for you are King Valen’s rightful heir.”
“No, Da, that I understood. What I want to know is, what did you say my new name is?”
Conal held grim laughter in check, for he had just told the lad that he was the true High King, and that assassins would be hunting him, and all the boy really wanted to know was his “new” name. Ah, to be eleven again.
“Reyer,” said Conal. “It’s Reyer.”
“But that is not in fact a new name for you,” said Gretta. “Instead, it’s your true name, your given name. Rígán is what we—Silverleaf and I—decided to call you so that no one would know who you really are. Silverleaf got the name from Aravan.”
“The Elf with the spear?” asked Alric.
“Krystallopyˆr?” said Driu.
Alric nodded and said, “The one that burns Foul Folk.”
“It doesn’t really burn them,” said Driu. “But, yes, Aravan is the one with that spear.”
“And why did the man—the assassin—want to look at my shoulder?” asked Reyer.
“To see your birthmark,” said Driu.
“My birthmark? What does that have to do with anything?”
“It resembles the right forefoot of a griffin,” said Driu.
Gretta said, “When you were born and the midwives and I and the King’s healer saw the ma
rk, we all thought it a great portent.”
“Portent,” said Reyer, looking at Driu for enlightenment.
A faint smile flitted across Driu’s face. “The High King’s seal and his flag bear his golden sigil—a griffin rampant—as do you, Valen’s firstborn . . . or at least the right foreclaw of the griffin—a most perilous part of that fabulous beast.”
“And on your right shoulder, too,” said Gretta. “The right-hand claw upon the strong right arm.”
Driu nodded and said, “Your mark was taken to mean that you will be a mighty High King in your time, one as fierce as a griffin, for you carry those deadly talons.”
Alric laughed, and when Reyer shot a puzzled glance his way, Alric said, “I always thought it a chicken foot.”
Gretta gasped in horror at Alric’s breach of etiquette, but Reyer laughed, and so did Conal.
But then Conal sobered and stepped to the fireplace in the sitting room and worked a small stone loose from near the edge of the outer hearth. From the gap revealed, he took an even smaller object tightly wrapped in leather, and out from that he took a man’s ring. “Here is the High King’s seal.” He handed it to Reyer. “Your father gave it to Silverleaf to give to you one day, and Silverleaf gave it to me for safekeeping.”
The ring was gold and set with a sparkling scarlet stone with a Golden Griffin rampant somehow incised thereon.
“The griffin’s forefeet hold talons much like those of an eagle, though greater and a deal more lethal, and the full claw of the right foot matches your birthmark,” said Conal. Then he knelt upon one knee and said, “You are Reyer, son of Valen, and are the true High King.”
Driu then added, “And by this ring and your birthmark, they shall know you.”
Conal sighed and stood and said, “We were to tell you when you turned twelve, but events now intervene.”
Reyer sat down, a bit stunned. He peered at the ring, and said, “I don’t think I want to be King.” He looked up at Alric as if seeking his opinion.
“Ha!” said the dark-haired lad, barking a laugh. “Better you than me.”
“You have no choice, Reyer,” said Conal.