He pulled back with a mental shout and dimly he could feel Anya doing the same thing.
A ghostly hand brushed his cheek and... he actually felt it!
“There has been a change.” The one on the left whispered. “He, they are different.”
“You were the ones who caused this to happen. You should have expected it.” His voice was hard and angry.
“I, we... we just did what our Goddess commanded us to. She didn’t tell us why. We don’t question her.”
“Maybe you should.” He was about to jerk open the door handle and leap blindly out into the night. “Maybe you should find out just what her agenda really is before you meddle with things that are beyond your comprehension.” He wondered if that last part had really been from him, or had it come from Anya? It didn’t matter. His hand touched the door handle just as the carriage rolled to a stop.
One of the women reached for the collar of his shirt and he jerked back. “Please.” She almost pleaded. “You must wear your locket on the outside of your doublet this evening. It is very important.”
“Oh, all right.” Jorse jerked the locket out from beneath his shirt. It was the first time he had noticed the tiny exquisite griffin etched there. “Let’s go then. I don’t have all night.”
The seneschal of Castle Gorthenal was the biggest man Jorse had ever seen, standing well over seven feet tall. He guessed that the man massed around twenty one stone—none of it fat. His face was hard and angular, with eyes that were dark and deep set under short clipped gray hair.
One of the women walked calmly up to the giant. “Good evening, Dobromil.” Her voice was flat and without inflection.
The seneschal nodded, microscopically. “Priestess, you are expected.” The voice was incredibly deep and sounded like distant thunder. The ironwood studded foot thick doors swung open and Jorse wondered briefly if it was too late to run.
They walked down long, elegantly decorated hallways that glowed with candles and lanterns, their light reflected by the polished white marble floors, and their footsteps sounded harsh and jarring. Brightly colored tapestries and paintings on the walls were primarily martial in nature, showing knights in armor or colorful tournaments on vast green fields. Ornate vases sat on even more ornate side tables. Heavy suits of ceramic armor stood guard, ancient stelwood swords and halberds polished to gleaming perfection and at the ready. The air smelled of bees wax and polishing oil and Jorse didn’t see a spot of rust or a speck of dust on any of the items on display. It was, he though somewhat grimly, like walking through a museum. He had been in a museum once in Boktor. It was boring; there was nothing to steal because everything was locked up in glass cases. Stupid! Occasionally they would meet clusters of maids or porters who would bow, to his embarrassment. It disturbed him profoundly to think that these women all dressed in white wielded so much raw power. Finally, after what seemed like miles of glistening hallways and hundreds of smiling, and some not so smiling faces, they reached the royal apartments.
Dobromil opened an ornate door and stuck his head in, briefly, after which he turned to the nearest Priestess. “He will see you now.” He rumbled in sepulchral tones.
It wasn’t anything like what he’d imagined. The private apartments of Count Gorthenal were relatively small and tastefully decorated with swords and bits of armor and vases of fresh flowers scattered about. There was no gold, and no silver. A crackling fire burned in a huge hearth on the far side of the room and fat overstuffed armchairs and couches were set around it in a semicircle, for more intimate gatherings.
Count Mirek Gorthenal sat at an ancient and massive wooden desk that dominated one side of the room and faced a small wooden table set with yellow flowers. Six chairs were arranged about the table. Fragrant blue smoke curled toward the ceiling from a battered old pipe resting in an ash tray at the man’s elbow.
“It’s about bloody time.” The Count growled as he rose to his feet. Mirek Gorthenal was an older man, about sixty years Jorse guessed, and of middle height. A mop of gray hair hung almost to his shoulders, framing a hard angular face, and seemed to be loped off roughly, not in the current curled style. His shoulders were wide and his waist was surprisingly narrow, especially for a man of more than middle years. Piercing blue gray eyes took in the five facing his desk. “So, what is this important thing I am supposed to see?” He moved around the desk with fluid grace. A sure sign, Jorse thought, of a seasoned fighter. The left sleeve of the Count’s robe appeared to be empty. “I suppose this boy is carrying whatever it is I’m supposed to see.” His eyes swung to Jorse. “Well, step forward, lad and let me see whatever...” The voice of the Count trailed off as his eyes took in Jorse’s eyes, hair, and cloak crest, finally coming to rest on the locket Jorse was wearing around his neck. The Count’s voice was a hoarse whisper, choked with emotion. “Silla was wearing that the last time I saw her.” He looked up and Jorse was shocked to see tears standing in the older man’s eyes. “What is your name, boy?”
A Priestess took his arm and gently pulled him forward, facing the Count. “Tell him your name, tell him you whole name.”
< I’m here, Jorse. I’ll be with you. Go ahead and tell him your name.>
“My name is Jorse.” He swallowed and his throat felt dry. “Jorse Schwendau.”
~~~
The man leaned heavily on the desk, with his good right arm. He looked as if he would fall over. Ice gray eyes looked up, not at Jorse but at the four Priestesses.
“How dare you? How dare you play on my emotions like that? This can’t be the son of Hedric and Silla, although I wish that it were so. The boy died in the siege. I lost this,” he held up the stump of his left arm. “Trying to find the lad.”
Jorse looked at the old Count and felt a sudden wave of affection for the man who had tried to find him. His only relative. Jorse walked around the ancient desk and sat down on the hard chair that rested behind it. Deliberately, and with more than a little fear, he pulled the sleeve back on his right arm and put the hand, palm up, on the desktop. The Count had stopped his ranting when he noticed that the Priestesses weren’t looking at him any longer, but were staring instead at Jorse; a look of horror creeping into their usually passive faces.
“You know the story of my family, Count Gorthenal, Uncle. You know what we carry within us. As I am the last Schwendau, so is Anya, my advisor, the last of her kind. We have spoken of you, Count, and we would like to have you join us, if you will.” Jorse bit his lip as a lump swelled in the palm of his right hand. Swelled and split. He gasped in pain as a small black slug emerged from the cut, and dark red blood trickled across the palm to drip slowly onto the desktop. The four Priestesses moved back in unison, eyes wide. Mirek just stared, first at the creature in Jorse’s hand, and then at Jorse. “It doesn’t hurt, Uncle, well not much anyway, and they do not take over your mind or eat your brain.” Jorse grinned as he saw the four women shudder. “They advise you, and they will be your friend if you let them.”... “Your friend and more, if you let them.” He murmured to himself.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing, Uncle.”
“Out with it, lad, if you expect me to put this thing into my body.”
“I said, your friend and more, if you let them.” Jorse gave the Count a level look.
Mirek nodded. “You’ve gone further with this than was recommended to Hedric or Silla. They were warned agin it.”
>
Jorse’s grin was a bit lopsided. “I didn’t have that luxury. I did what was necessary for my survival—and Anya’s.”
The old Count nodded once more, then rolled up the sleeve of his robe and put his palm next to Jorse’s. “Let’s do this thing, Nephew.” The word seemed to go straight to Jorse’s heart. He wasn’t alone any more. He had a family! Tears coursed down his cheeks. “What’s the matter, boy?” Concern echoed in the old man’s voice.
“Nothing, Uncle. Nothing is wrong. I now have a family—after being alone all these years. I’m... I’m happy.” He reached out and gently dropped the black slug onto the waiting hand. It took two or three seconds for the creature to burrow in, and then it was gone. Count Gornethal gasped once, then was silent. Jorse watched the man carefully. At first there was no reaction, and then, after a minute or two, the Count got a faraway look in his eyes, as if he were listening to a distant voice only he could hear. A look of wonder came to his old, craggy face.
“She says her name is Naween, and she brings greetings to me from you and Anya.”
There was hand under his arm, helping him up. “Are you all right, boy?” The Count looked concerned.
“I’m fine, sir.” He shook his head to try and clear the ringing. “Just don’t let Naween kiss you. Anya was a bit excited at the thought of being a mother and not being alone in the world. She got carried away. That’s all.” The Count had a faraway look for a moment. “What did Naween say, Uncle?”
“All she said was, ‘Well then.’ and that’s all. I don’t understand.”
Jorse laughed. “You are going to have an interesting life, Uncle. I don’t advise telling anyone about your, uh, guest; unless you can think of a person who might be a good candidate for an advisor.”
Mirek didn’t wait a second. “Elsbeth, my wife. She also runs my spy network. She would be the perfect candidate.”
“That’s pretty advanced thinking for this culture, wouldn’t you say, Uncle?” The Count gave the boy a sharp look and Jorse just shrugged. “I have access to other sources of information, Uncle. Anya has a very long memory.”
The nephew and the uncle never noticed the four Priestesses look at each other and quietly make their way out of the room.
“What just happened?” The first whispered to the second as the door to the apartments closed.
“I don’t know but it was significant. Maybe I’ll ask the Goddess.”
“Do you think She will answer you?”
The second just laughed. “Not on your life.” The four walked on in silence.
Mirek rang for a bottle of wine and then the two sat down to talk of Hedric and Silla, of Jorse’s life as an orphan and thief in Boktor, and finally as a Raider in the dreaded Corsairs of Althelia. Mirek was more than surprised that Jorse was commanding a ship on his own; coming into Chita for critical parts.
“It’s a test, you know, to see whether you can or will complete the job. Your First Mate, Mister Idzy, probably has orders to bring the ship back if you don’t return.”
Jorse sipped his wine slowly and looked at his uncle with a new respect. The man was nobody’s fool. “I figured that out before I ever sailed away.”
“She’s priming you fer somethin, somethin big I think.”
“Maybe, but I...” There was a noise at the back of the room and both men turned. A woman stood there, arms crossed and a deep scowl on her round face. Her glance went from the men to the open window, where they could see the first faint traces of gray in the morning sky.
“You stayed up talking and drinking all night again, didn’t you?” She picked up the empty bottle from the table and shook it. The scowl deepened. Mirek turned his head toward Jorse and slowly winked one eye.
“Jorse, this is my lovely and talented wife, Elsbeth.” The slightly plump woman could have been anyone’s mother. Her dark brown, graying hair was pulled back and held with a plain clasp, and she wore a nondescript blue dressing gown. All in all, a somewhat pretty but totally forgettable woman. Then she opened her mouth.
“Would that be Jorse of Vaigach?” She studied him with dark penetrating eyes. “It almost has to be. Jorse, also known as ‘the Mouse’ and ‘Marko,’ also of Vaigach. Sneak thief, executed about two to three years ago. You’re looking quite well, young man, for being three years dead. Rescuer of young girls. That was an awfully lot of money you gave her, by the way. Savior of the barque Dagfred. Captured by pirates. Saved the crew and brig Sunset by talking his captain out of murdering them, and finally, accused of being able to fly in the pirate city of Zamora on the island of Aethalia. He is currently the navigator aboard the Corsair Raider Donner-kind, whereabouts unknown.” She smiled and her blue eyes twinkled. “You have been busy, for one so young.”
“You missed several things, dear.” The Count was grinning broadly.
“Oh?” She frowned in concentration. “I don’t think I’ve missed anything.”
“Firstly, you missed his name dear. His real name is Jorse, Jorse Schwendau. Secondly, he is the lost son of Hedric and Silla and our nephew, my love. He is also the rightful king.” He added as an afterthought.
“Oh, dear!” Elsbeth, the Countess Gorthenal blushed prettily and did a hasty curtsey. “I apologize, Your Majesty.”
Jorse shot a frown at the still grinning Count and stood. “Come and give me a hug, Aunt Elsbeth. I have a large empty space inside of me that only a lot of hugs from family can fill.”
The little Countess clasped him tightly. “You don’t eat well enough, Jorse. You’re all bones. We’ll fatten you up and put some meat on you.”
“I’m sorry, Count, Countess, but I’ll be leaving almost immediately. I have a ship to catch, you see.”
“What! Why, we’ve just met. Where do you have to go in such a hurry?”
He held the chair while his aunt sat, and then seated himself, facing the other two. “I have to purchase certain parts and return them, along with the brig Boosenech, to an unnamed island where the Donner-kind awaits.”
Elsbeth frowned. “Isn’t the Boosenech captained by Leto anymore?” The frown disappeared. “Ahhh. I see.” She gave Jorse a speculative look. “Is the crew still alive?”
“They were when I left, well, the ones who survived the boarding action.” Jorse returned the smile. “And if I have anything at all to say about it, they will remain so, and probably return here with the ship, empty of course, and wild stories of Corsair cruelty.”
“Empty, of course.” She agreed. “You are a good man, Jorse of Vaigach. A good man placed in a difficult situation. What are your plans?” Her eyes sparkled and she leaned forward in interest.
“I’d rather not say right now, Auntie dear.” He gave her an impudent smile.
“Oh, you’re terrible, Jorse.”
“I try, Countess, I try.” He bowed floridly.
Her face grew serious. “I’ll make you a deal. You don’t Countess me and I won’t Majesty you. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough.” He laughed.
“Now, tell me, is there anything that we can do for you?”
Jorse didn’t even have to think. He already knew what he wanted. “Do you remember the girl that I rescued in Boktor, the young waif?”
“Dara, wasn’t it? Or was that
Dala?” Elsbeth was indeed as sharp as the Count had hinted, Jorse thought.
“Dala, Aunt Elsbeth. She is currently in the hands of the Priestesses in Boktor, at the Temple of the Moon. If it is possible, I would like her brought here, to stay with you.” One of his aunt’s eyebrows went up. “Away from the so-called Goddess Selene.”
The Count leaned forward, a smile on his hard face. “We can take her in, with no problem; the place has seemed empty since the children left anyway. Know, however, that it may be a while before we can get her out of Boktor. Relations with the island of Vaigach are—strained.”
“Thank you Uncle.” Jorse said simply.
“You care for the girl.” It was more a statement than a question.
“Yes, sir I do, like I would care for a sister, if I had one.”
Mikek gave him a long considering look, and Jorse found himself blushing furiously, his tongue thick as a brick.
“Now you’ve gone and embarrassed the boy. Men!” Elsbeth said in some disgust. There was however, as Jorse noted, and undercurrent of deep love for her husband in the reply. It was just possible that she loved him as deeply as he loved her. They doted on each other. Jorse blinked in surprise at the revelation.
“I must go, now.” Jorse stood.
“Tell me first, before you go, who taught you your manners?” Elsbeth asked. “They are not common at all.”
“Captain Svetla of the Dagfred started teaching me, and then I suppose it was Anya.”
His aunt frowned. “Who is this Anya girl? I thought I knew all of your acquaintances.”
“Remember who he is, love.” Mirek said softly to his wife. “Remember what he carries within him.”
Elsbeth frowned, and then her blue eyes opened wide. Her hand flew to her mouth. “No! I thought they were all... that they had all died with...”
The Count touched his wife’s shoulder with his right hand. “Not all my love, not all.”
The Corsairs of Aethalia: A Thalassia novel Page 10
