Keeping his eyes on Tryst’s, Wren slowly went to his knees. He forced the words out of his mouth. “I swear by my faith and on my life to serve, protect, and obey the prince until my death, for the sake of Valemidas and our people.” The oath could be said, Wren assured himself, because the only true prince was Andor, standing just behind him.
Tryst spoke smoothly and formally, as if obedience was predetermined. “Brother of Jon, you have always been loyal to Valemidas and you now will be loyal to me. I raise you, Wren Vale Sterling, to be a Knight of the Lycurgus.”
Wren felt the famous blade snap down on his left shoulder, then his right, stopping a second too late and pricking his skin. A drop of blood spotted his white tunic. He rushed to his feet and stepped aside, furious. Tryst moved on without pause.
Breathing heavily, Wren watched the next few knightings. He was surprised that Tryst would draw blood, but also slightly relieved that he had not killed him on the spot. He had the feeling of standing in the mouth of a dragon, and the dragon had only gotten a taste before opening its jaws and letting its dinner go. Despite their mutual antagonism, Tryst was calculating enough to know he would gain more from Wren’s display of fealty than from his death.
Wren looked to his left at Jon, who returned a satisfied nod. Wren respected his brother’s sincerity but could not escape his own feeling of disgust.
His mind flashed back to his first fight with Tryst years ago. Both had been twelve. The boys of that age who had wealth or a noble’s support trained regularly under knights on the palace grounds. Twelve was when they began sparring with each other officially. Jon had been only eleven, but his abilities allowed for a rare exception. One of the first days, Jon and Tryst had fought long and hard with light wooden swords. They were the best of the young boys, except for Andor who was a year older and benefitted from the great knight Ulysses’ tutelage.
Tryst had won the swordfight that day, as he almost always did. After taking Jon down, he had stood over him jeering and taunting the other boys. Wren had snapped at that point, charging at Tryst with all the force his twelve-year-old body could muster. It did not end well for either of them. Tryst had a black eye; Wren had a broken wrist. Tryst hated Wren for not accepting his primacy; Wren hated Tryst for being better and knowing it. For the years of training that followed, Jon and Tryst always vied to be the best, after Andor. Everyone had a fearful respect for Tryst, except for Wren.
The memories rushed through Wren’s mind as he watched the sixth man knighted, the local man from Albemarle. Tryst just went through the motions. His furtive eyes suggested that his mind had already moved on from this segment of the evening.
As Andor stepped before Tryst, he knelt down without ever looking at the prince. It was a proper measure of respect of a common soldier for his liege.
Wren held his breath. He heard Jon breathing nervously beside him and much other noise from the square. The crowd had grown louder by the time of this final knighting, as no one else seemed to care about this last soldier garbed in brown.
Tryst lifted Zarathus overhead and murmured a question about the name of the man before him. Wren could barely hear the words, which were directed at Tryst’s feet, but it sounded like “Walt Franken.” Wren’s heart was pounding. He gave Jon an assuring glance. This would work. It had to.
Tryst dropped his glance to Andor’s bowed head as the oath was mumbled in a low voice. With a hint of curiosity in his eyes, Tryst said, “I raise you Walt Francone, to be a Knight of the Lycurgus.” The sword dropped and it was done.
Wren thought distraction might now be the best course, so he shouted.
“For Valemidas!”
The Prince’s head snapped towards him, as the crowd echoed the chant. The knights standing around began to offer congratulations to the newcomers to their ranks. The guests began to rise and stretch like a pack of hounds awaking from sleep. Amidst the movement, Andor rose and turned from Tryst, keeping his head down. He slid into the pack of welcoming knights.
Wren found himself locking eyes with Tryst. The prince took four swift steps, and in an instant they were face-to-face again. The other knights ducked aside, forming a circle around the prince and his captive.
Before Wren could react, Tryst spun behind him and curved his arm around Wren’s throat. Clutching tightly, Tryst whispered into Wren’s ear. “I know you, Wren. Do not think that you can prevail over me in anything or keep anything from me.” His voice snapped like a whip.
Jon stepped to Wren’s side, and spoke calmly and firmly. “My prince, we are honored to be your knights and look forward to fighting at your side. I vouch for my tricky brother, here,” he finished with a laugh, betting on humor to lighten the mood.
Tryst loosened his hold on Wren’s throat. “Thank you, Jon, but I was speaking to Wren. What are you hiding?”
“Your excellency overestimates my devices,” Wren coughed out.
“Your disloyalty precedes you, hawker. Tell me what you are hiding.”
Wren relaxed his body and feigned defeat. “I am hiding that I do not always find you worthy of your position.”
“Your lips drip treachery before your first night of service is through.” Tryst’s threatening tone pushed the onlookers to take a step back. He stepped in front of Wren, clenched his hand around his throat, and lifted him off his feet. Sweat began to bead on Wren’s face as he gasped for breath.
Tryst glanced at the surrounding knights. “How do we reward disloyalty?”
“Death,” they answered. Each one’s voice was timid; combined they were a weak echo of their Prince’s passion.
“Death,” Tryst responded, “would be a waste with this one. He has strength only to utter disobedience, not to be disloyal; his actions have always been wanting in vigor.” He threw Wren’s body back as if tossing a bad apple. Wren landed with a thud, and Tryst pinned him to the ground with his right foot. In an instant he knelt and held a dagger to Wren’s throat.
“Your brother’s loyalty might serve for both of you. You will remain my knight, you pitiful son of a merchant’s whore. You will valiantly lead our trash squad. Clean up our filth, trail behind the Lycurgus, and leave glory to your betters. Do not forget yourself.”
The prince stood, and turned to Jon with a smile. “Now Jon, I raise you to be a Knight of my Council, one of my highest protectors and executors. If your brother oozes any disloyalty, even whispers it in his sleep, I will give you the honor of taking off his head.”
Tryst turned from the brothers to walk away. Just as Wren had regained his balance, Tryst spun back and punched Wren straight in the face, knocking him down into a bleeding heap. He gave Jon a quick nod and returned casually to the fawning of his other knights, who were now whipped up into an anxious frenzy.
Wren slowly stood with Jon’s help. He offered Jon a dazed smile. Saying a word would have been too dangerous, but he wanted to signal to his brother that this was a success. Unfortunate consequences aside, Andor had passed under Tryst’s nose unnoticed. Jon responded with a mixed expression, confused but relieved to see Wren’s spirit unbroken. Sometimes he was too forthright to understand fully his brother’s intimations.
As the two brothers receded into the crowd, Tryst stepped onto the raised platform, again standing below the immense statue, as if challenging its historic presence. He bowed low before the crowd, like a gracious servant. So flippantly he terrifies and then beguiles with charm, thought Wren. He looked blankly at the other guests as he rejoined them at the table.
“My lords, ladies, knights, and good people of Albemarle!” Tryst began. “We have the greatest power in the continent passing through your lovely city and we intend to celebrate it.” He grabbed a chalice from the table and lifted it high. “A toast to our new knights and our coming victory!”
The crowd responded in cheers and drank deeply, relieved to feel tension dissipating. Wren marveled at the Prince’s charisma. How could the people love him just because he eases his grip on their throats?
Wren tried to process what had happened. He found it unbelievable that Tryst’s greatest threat could pass that close to him without any action. Andor was just as likely to take that moment to try to kill Tryst as Tryst was to sniff out Andor’s presence. The two had a special bond. Growing up, Tryst had always been in Andor’s shadow by age, if not by merit. Andor had taken Tryst under his wing and treated him like a brother. This compounded the vileness of Tryst’s coup, striking from that position of loyalty. Wren spat at the thought of it, but it was blood that came from his mouth. He rubbed his jaw. He was going to feel the pain of that punch for days.
“Showing off your battle wounds already?” Jon asked lightly. “We have barely engaged the enemy.”
“I was just thinking of that last knighting,” Wren said in a hushed voice. “We were very lucky the only blood spilled in that encounter was mine. Did you see where he went?”
“No, but I suspect he has duties with his branch of the Lycurgus. He returned to that far corner,” Jon pointed, “but I cannot see him in the crowd.”
“I hope you are right about him. That was truly a miracle. It was as if he learned to be a shadow of himself.”
“Look who’s talking to Tryst now,” Jon pointed at the prince’s dais.
“Jacodin, and the two seem to be having a grand time,” Wren said. “Do you think Jacodin is laughing at his own joke, or one of Tryst’s? Or are they laughing about me and my glorious new position. Look, they are pointing back at our table.”
“Wren, you are a knight, in a position to rise. The more Tryst and his knights laugh about you, the less they will suspect another, more important, man who was raised to knighthood tonight.”
“Actually, I think they have more attractive subjects for their enjoyment. Look who our comrade is pursuing now.”
Jacodin was beckoning toward the table for the Albemarle ladies to join the prince and him. The women rose eagerly. Mailyn smiled goodbye to the brothers and took the lead in approaching the royal table.
“I bet Tryst chooses the blonde,” Wren said. “He always has liked the strong ones. I feel for poor Mailyn, I do. She would have been much better off with me. She has no chance with Tryst.”
The brothers watched her stride directly to Tryst, bend low, and plant a light kiss on his right hand. The other three ladies crowded behind, waiting for their shining moment, but the knights standing by readily engaged them.
A moment later, Lucinda was trying to pull away from a huge man in chainmail, Sir Sigmund Crantz. He was a Knight of the Council, like Jon, and he had already become esteemed as the lead executioner for the prince. It was rumored that Tryst tolerated the sinister rake because he never shied from unsavory deeds. Everyone called him Sig.
Now Sig had Lucinda pinned between his arms at the far end of the table. She leaned back as far as possible but could not escape his trap. The brothers saw him murmur something towards her, and she responded with a yell. Shaking her head, she tensed and struck the knight with an uppercut to the chin. It connected firmly yet made little difference to the assailant. He laughed in response, probably to cover his wounded pride.
Again he leaned forward to accost her, when another figure darted from behind, and Sig froze. “There is a blade at his throat,” Jon said with urgency. “No one threatens a knight of the Council like that, especially not Sir Sig.”
“It is Ravien.” Wren whispered, stunned. “What is she doing here?” His throat was tight with emotion. “She hides under that hood, even at this banquet staying shadowed.”
Sig turned on Ravien slowly, not daring the sharp edge at his throat. He was twice her size. Suddenly a flurry of motion was followed by the sound of an awful snap. The dagger fell, and Ravien grabbed her wrist in pain. The huge knight pressed closely but paused, probably seeing who she was for the first time.
Most knights would have stopped there, daring nothing that would offend the Prince. But Sig had a history of distaste for the royals and nobles, and he had likely been drinking. He lifted Ravien with ease, and slammed her down onto a table.
Wren jumped to his feet without thought, but Jon stood and grabbed him by the shoulder. He dragged his brother back into his seat as Tryst suddenly slammed into Sig.
The prince pinned him down and began to pound his fists at the knight’s face. Several blows connected in a blur before Tryst rose abruptly and walked away. He said not a word.
A pool of blood spread around the head of the fallen Sig. He would probably live, but his scarred face would do the talking for Tryst. Ravien was nowhere to be seen.
“Jon, Wren,” a voice said softly from behind, “follow me.” They turned and saw Andor crouched beside the table. They nodded and rose. People had scattered enough from their original seats that no one would miss the brothers.
Andor led them to an alley a short way off the square. It was a quiet sanctuary out of eyesight from Tryst’s table. Andor sat back against the cool wall and exhaled. “We must remember our purpose here. We risked far too much tonight.” The brothers kneeled beside him.
“Wren,” Andor continued, “I think you saved me with your shout for Valemidas. It looked like Tryst caught my eye for an instant as I knelt before him. He could easily have seen through my crude disguise with more time, but I think he was so flustered by you that he lost focus on me. We put the battle off another day, a day that will come soon enough.” Andor’s voice trailed off as he looked towards the square.
“I am just glad we made it.” Jon broke the silence. “So what now, my prince?”
“Jon, you have won a close position to Tryst, even sooner than I had hoped. You must use that position to find out where his mind is. He may be thinking mostly of the Lycurgus’ march or the enemy, although I doubt that. He may be thinking of the nobles or other politics of Valemidas. It could be his thirst for love, which he tries to hide from everyone, including himself. He might seek to satisfy that thirst with one of his mistresses. Stay close to him and be yourself, steadfast in your support. Watch his every move and learn where his troubles lie, his vulnerabilities. Report on what you learn to Wren. I need this information to know when to make my next move.”
“Wren, I want you to be a knight, and a good one. Remember, you are suspected from the start. Given your position, you need to provide sound service. Befriend all of the other knights at your level. They will be valuable assets in our campaign. We need to know where they stand on Tryst and this upcoming battle. Learn these things, and seek dissidents in your subtle ways. No one will suspect the two of you talking. Wren, I will find a way to meet you. Do not look for me, but expect me at any moment.”
Andor leaned forward and the moon cast his brow and cheekbones in a silver light. The brothers had been listening intently, and seeing Andor’s face framed the context of his instructions filled them with hope that this was truly the prince. He was different than before, more serious, more humble, but also more alive, more brilliant. Tryst was going in the opposite direction, perhaps the same direction that Andor had been drifting in before the coup. The power of the prince led them both toward more arrogance, more isolation, and more tyranny.
A look of purpose and understanding showed in Andor’s eyes. “Remember our mission, my friends. We must put Valemidas back in its position of greatness, a free city to lead the others by influence, not by force. It cannot be restored as long as a tyrant sits on the throne. I will regain power, and then I will spread it for the good of all. But Tryst stands in my way. So learn more as I rebuild my alliances. My plans are moving fast now.”
Andor paused and smiled. “Now you two go enjoy your first night as knights. And Wren, watch out for Ravien. She’s a temptress who can unravel even the strongest of men.” Their prince glided away and melted into the narrow alley’s shadows.
Chapter 13
UNBRIDLED CONFIDENCE
“Because the sentence
against an evil deed
is not executed speedily,
the heart of the children of man
is fully set to do evil.”
As the Prince of Valemidas, I expected more from my men. “We should have reached the mountains a week ago. Why is this army so slow?”
It was a shame to spoil my morning coffee with reprimands, but I had picked this fight and would win it. These insolent knights were dallying and slowing our pace. My Lycurgus was covering only fifteen miles a day, along the Prince’s Road no less. Not a single one of my men, my own Council, would look me in the face. They had plenty of excuses: rain, untrained men, few horses, heavy packs, camp followers. There were always plenty of excuses for failure, but excuses never helped.
“I want to conquer this city within the week. Tell me how we can do it.” They were standing around my map table in a half circle. Young faces and grizzled faces, they were nine knights and a priest. I did not miss Sir Sig. The company could have been worse.
Ulysses gazed at me with his old eyes. “The simple answer is yes,” he said. “We can make it there in five days, marching hard. Our forces should overwhelm theirs, but the mere fact that they have not fled means they have something up their sleeve. We should win, but I fear it will not be a pretty victory.”
“A victory is a victory, Ulysses, and we cannot win unless we actually get there. The people need to have confidence in the Lycurgus, and in me. I promised a quick victory, and this march has been less than inspiring. You do not need me to remind you of the numbers.”
We had set out with twenty thousand infantrymen and two hundred knights. I had not believed the first reports. Men were deserting. Fine, I had said, bleed out the weak ones. But the numbers had continued to grow. We had lost at least fifty men a day over the past week. Our two stops in villages since Albemarle had brought in fresh recruits, but not enough to replace the losses. Besides, these were scrubs, farmers looking for a chance to fight by my side.
Light in the Gloaming (The Gloaming Book One) Page 14
