by Angus Wells
Were he to remain in Secca it seemed the priesthood must be his destiny, unless he won the support of Nadama’s family. He sighed and turned from his contemplation of the garden, going back into his chambers. The sand clock told him he had still some hours before his presence would be required and he determined to spend them making himself as presentable as possible. He tugged on the cord beside his bed, knowing that somewhere in the bowels of the palace a bell would ring, summoning a servant, and settled in a chair with the book he had been studying the previous night.
It was Medith’s History of Lysse and the World, from which he had sought to glean insights into the thinking of the ambassador he was soon to meet, and while he considered it less erudite than Sarnium’s Chronicles of the Southern Kingdoms, it was interesting enough that he became engrossed, and was startled by the appearance of the servant.
“My lord?”
The man studied Calandryll with less respect than he would have given Tobias, his manner vaguely suggestive of more pressing urgencies than attendance on the Domm’s younger son. Calandryll looked up, marking his place, and set the book down.
“A bath. And a barber. And is there anything to eat?”
“The Domm has taken luncheon, my lord; and the kitchens are preparing tonight’s feast. You were not to be found.”
“Did my father ask for me?”
Calandryll reviewed excuses, aware that his cheeks reddened.
The servant paused as if considering the matter, then shook his head. “No, my lord. He ate with the ambassador and your brother. I might find something.”
“Please,” Calandryll nodded, thinking that if Tobias had voiced the request the man would be gone now.
“In what order, my lord?”
Calandryll bit back a sigh: he must endeavor to be more authoritative. He said, “Food first, then a bath. Then the barber.”
The man bowed. “Yes, my lord.”
Calandryll watched him go and returned to the book. One advantage of Medith’s work was its more recent maps, his cartography of greater precision than Sarnium’s. Secca lay to the east of the Lyssian domains, on a rough line with Aldarin, Wessyl to the north, and higher on the coast the great inlet that protected the shipyards of Eryn. Eyl and Kandahar lay across the Narrow Sea, Aldarin ideally situated to enjoy the benefits of trade with both, while Secca’s commerce was mostly with the other coastal cities and the distant Jesseryn Plain. Aldarin might, if her Domm so chose, cut the trade routes, so a treaty that would secure Secca’s sea-lanes to Kandahar was a worthwhile prize.
Kandahar occupied the southern tip of the peninsula extending into the Southern Ocean, and while nominally at peace with Lysse, still afforded anchorage to the Kand pirates whose annual depredations threatened all Lyssian trade. Thus it was in the interests of both Secca and Aldarin to forge a naval alliance presenting a unified front when the corsairs began their raids.
Satisfied with his summary, he let his eyes wander over the map, thinking of Reba’s prophecy of travel to distant lands. Neither Eyl or Kandahar seemed distant enough, but not even Medith showed much more of the world. Beyond the Gann Peaks, which marked Lysse’s northern boundary, Kern was depicted as prairie, the grassland surrounding the vast central forest of the Cuan na’Dru, the mountains of the Valt to the west and the Jesseryn Plain to the north across the chasm of the Kess Imbrun. Of that mysterious land nothing was known, those traders venturing so far confined to Nywan, the closed city at the mouth of the Marl. The peninsula containing Eyl and Kandahar, the Shann Desert between them, was split by the spine of the Kharmrhanna, the western coast wholly occupied by the Jungles of Gash. Northwest, from the great barrier of the Valt to the sea, lay Gessyth, of which Medith said only, “It is a forbidding land best left be, all reeking swamp where strange creatures dwell, the outcasts of the gods with no love of men. Three of my crew died here, and I fell sick close unto death.”
There was another map, Calandryll remembered, a more detailed work, tucked away in a dusty corner of the palace archives. He had noticed it once before while searching for a chart of the Lyssian coastline, but paid it scant attention. At the first opportunity he would seek it out. In case Nadama refused him.
He closed Medith’s book as the servant returned, bearing a tray of beaten copper on which a platter of cold meat and some fruit rested.
“Water is now being drawn,” he announced, and left with a cursory bow. Calandryll realized that he was hungry.
He was biting into an apple when two more servants lugged in a caldron of steaming water, two women behind with cold. The men deposited the contents of their burden in his tub and the women stood waiting for instructions. He dismissed them: it seemed decadent to allow another to bathe him, and his love for Nadama rendered him oblivious to the other services they offered.
The barber was waiting when he emerged and he sat, watching strands of hair fall about his feet, returning desultory responses to the man’s professional chatter. That task completed, the barber applied a razor to Calandryll’s cheeks, finally allowing his subject to examine his handiwork.
“Thank you.”
Calandryll waved a hand in dismissal, staring at his image. He looked tidier, but not greatly improved. It would have to suffice; short of divine intervention he could look no better. He glanced at the sand clock, seeing the grains filtered close to the mark of the dining hour, and went to his wardrobes.
Customarily, his dress was careless, but tonight he gave some thought to his apparel, selecting and discarding outfits until he was satisfied with his choice. He drew on a loose shirt of white Seccan silk, and dark blue breeches that he fastened with a maroon belt, its formal sheath decorated with silver threading, the dagger it held hilted with mother-of-pearl, boots of blue-dyed leather stitched with silver to match the sheath, and finally a tunic lozenged with maroon and blue. He studied himself afresh, self-conscious of his unusual finery, then nodded in satisfaction, and filled a goblet with Aldan wine.
Three glasses bolstered his confidence and when he heard the great gong bell, and gave himself a final examination, he decided he looked handsome enough to sway Nadama. He descended the stairs resolutely, resisting the impulse to hurry.
He reached the ground floor of the palace and strode across the tiles to the smaller banqueting hall. Ambassadors did not merit the grandiose feasting accorded some visiting Domm or ranking monarch, only those nobles directly concerned with the negotiations attending, with their immediate families, though there were enough of them the hall seemed crowded. Nadama’s father, Tyras den Ecvin, would be there, accompanied by his wife and daughter. Calandryll’s heart quickened at the thought.
The guards ringing the outer hall saluted him as he passed and he gestured in response, halting beneath the arched entrance. Dusk began to darken the sky and lanterns had been lit along the walls, braziers of sandalwood committing perfumed smoke to the air. Bylath sat at the High Table, raised three steps above the floor on a dais of black marble, facing the arch, the ambassador to his right, Tobias at his left. An empty chair waited beside the ambassador. Calandryll hung back, scanning the hall. The foremost of the Domm’s councillors occupied the tables at the pedestal’s foot and he found Nadama there.
She was lovely. The lanterns struck golden highlights from her luxurious auburn hair, piled high to emphasize the slender paleness of her neck. Her eyes sparkled and her lips were spread wide in a smile, and as she turned to speak with her mother Calandryll swallowed at the taut stretch of white silk across her breasts. Taking a deep breath and essaying what he hoped was a dignified expression, he entered the hall.
Bylath glanced up as he approached the High Table, murmuring something to the man on his right. The ambassador was tall, even seated, and slim, his features handsome in a hawkish way, dark eyes bright in a tanned face, his hair cut short, a dramatic contrast to the robe of pale blue and gold he wore. He glanced in Calandryll’s direction and nodded. Tobias looked toward his brother and added a word of his own, smiling.
Guessing that some comment on his tardiness was made, Calandryll felt his cheeks redden, instinctively quickening his pace. He caught Nadama’s eye as he passed her table and smiled, delighted that she returned his unspoken greeting.
“So, you come at last.”
Bylath studied his son with cool grey eyes, a hand toying with the pendant of his office. Calandryll felt his blush deepen, muttering an apology as he reached his place.
“My younger son, Calandryll,” Bylath announced to the ambassador. “Calandryll, this is Lord Varent den Tarl of Aldarin.”
“My lord.”
Calandryll bowed formally before seating himself; Varent answered with an easy smile.
“Doubtless lost in some book,” Tobias remarked with casual malice.
“Study is no bad thing,” murmured Varent, and Calandryll flashed the dark-haired man a grateful look.
“But unnecessary to one destined for the priesthood,” Tobias responded.
Varent’s shoulders rose a fraction and he brushed his dark beard as if considering the comment. “Knowledge is power,” he remarked equably. “Even should the priesthood be his destiny, he loses nothing in study.”
Tobias snorted, and for an instant he appeared a mirror of his father, broad shoulders hunching, his handsome face creased with a dismissive smile. He was tall as By-lath, who yet retained the heavy musculature of his prime, the hand that cupped his goblet large and thick-fingered, his yellow-gold hair thick about a face seemingly carved from dark sandstone. Calandryll felt himself a wan facsimile of his parent; a poor copy of his brother. He sought to hide his embarrassment behind his wine cup.
“What do you study?” asked Varent amiably.
Calandryll decided he liked the Aldarin ambassador. He said, “I was reading Medith.”
“The History of Lysse and the World,” Varent nodded. “An excellent work, though I consider Sarnium a more reliable chronicler.”
“Medith offers better maps,” Calandryll returned promptly, his confidence mounting as he felt himself on familiar ground.
“True,” allowed Varent, “in Aldarin we have his original charts. Should you ever honor our city with a visit, I should be pleased to show them to you.”
Calandryll beamed at the prospect. Then felt his smile freeze as his father said, “The priests of Secca do not leave the city. Calandryll will take up residence in the temple.”
It sounded as though his future had been decided: it firmed his own decision to approach Nadama. He looked to where she sat, barely hearing Tobias say, “That way I can keep an eye on him,” not needing to turn his head to know that a mocking grin curved his brother’s lips.
Nadama smiled at him and he felt his confidence soar, Reba’s prophecy momentarily forgotten. If she would have him, the future must hold happiness.
“You appear disturbed,” Varent remarked softly. “Does the priestly life not appeal?”
Calandryll tore his gaze from Nadama, turning to the ambassador, about to give a negative reply. Beyond Varent he saw his father’s eyes upon him and said dutifully, “As the Domm wills.”
Bylath smiled tightly. Varent nodded, recognizing he touched upon an area of argument; diplomat that he was, he changed the subject.
“Do you consider the Kand pirates a threat to Secca?”
“They threaten all our cities,” Calandryll answered, forcing himself to speak calmly. “Though their depredations are less immediately felt in Secca, still we need the iron of Eyl and open trade routes. Should the corsairs succeed in establishing dominance of the Narrow Sea, or threaten the coastline, then we must share the suffering of Aldarin.”
Varent nodded approvingly.
“An allied naval force! Your son speaks sense, my lord Bylath.”
“We are agreed on this,” Bylath said.
“You have decided?” asked Calandryll.
“Today,” said Tobias.
“Aldarin contributes twelve galleys,” Varent offered, “and we draw up treaties of nonaggression between our cities.”
“Twelve from us,” Tobias expanded as though the credit belonged to him alone, “and twelve from our ally—surely sufficient to ward our sea-lanes. Though when I am Domm we shall renegotiate—I favor a more aggressive policy.”
“Your brother would attack the Kands in their strongholds,” explained Varant.
“Too great a risk of war with Kandahar,” Bylath said. “Though the notion has its appeal.”
“Strike to the heart!” Tobias declared fiercely. “Teach the corsairs a lesson and end their threat once and for all.”
Bylath favored his elder son with an approving smile, but he said, “Let us take this thing one step at a time. Alliance first, to secure our trade routes; it would be unwise to overreach ourselves.”
“Of course,” Tobias agreed quickly. “I speak of the future, when our allied navy will be stronger.”
“What is your opinion?” Varent asked politely.
Calandryll frowned, thinking. It was unusual enough that his views should be sought on such matters, and he would have preferred to study Nadama, contemplating how he should approach her, but he felt his father’s eyes on him, as though the Domm saw his reply as a test of some kind.
“I think,” he said slowly, “that caution is the wisest policy. Should we go to war with Kandahar we should be the weaker side. The concept of our cities joining in alliance is unusual enough that we should first establish the navy. Let us see how that fares before we attempt so ambitious a venture as direct attack.”
“Cautious as ever,” Tobias grunted.
But Calandryll saw that for once he had his father’s approval. Encouraged, he continued, “There will, inevitably, be problems at first. Who commands? How shall the supportive levies be organized? Shall the ships be built in the yards at Eryn, or in our own cities? Does Eryn join the alliance?”
“Eryn remains neutral,” said Bylath. “They’ll build our galleys, but not man them; nor join us.”
“Eryn sits safe in the north,” grumbled Tobias. “The corsairs make no sallies so deep into the Narrow Sea and Eryn lacks the spine to fight with us.”
“Why should she?” asked Calandryll. “The Kand pirates are no threat to Eryn.”
“And this alliance is unprecedented,” agreed Varent. He turned to Bylath: “Your son has a good head on his shoulders, my lord. He’d make a fine diplomat.”
“He’s to be a priest,” said Bylath flatly, bringing Calandryll back to earth. “Tonight I announce it.”
Calandryll saw the satisfied expression on Tobias’s face and felt his spirits sink afresh. Decisions had clearly been made in his absence, and while they were hardly unexpected, their immediacy emphasized his dilemma. He sought solace in contemplation of Nadama: if she agreed to marry him, the influence of the den Ecvin family could change his future.
“It cannot be so bad,” Varent murmured, his tone pitched low enough that only Calandryll might hear him. “Even as a priest you must surely find time to study.”
Calandryll shook his head mournfully.
“In Secca, my lord, the priests are denied such luxuries—their only study is the worship of Dera. And I would marry.”
“That lovely maiden?” asked Varent, following his gaze.
“If she will have me.”
The Aldarin ambassador nodded thoughtfully. “And does your father know of this desire?”
“No,” Calandryll murmured, turning to face Varent, “Nor would I have him know until I nave her answer. Her family has sufficient influence they might sway my father’s decision.”
“So you would kill two birds with the single stone,” the ambassador whispered, smiling. “Fear not, Calandryll—your secret is safe with me.”
“If she will have me,” he repeated.
“You think she might refuse?” Varent studied him speculatively.
“I have a rival.”
Dark brows rose, framing an unspoken question. Calandryll said, “My brother.”
Varent’s
eyes hooded, though the smile remained fixed on his lips. Calandryll paid it scant attention, though it occurred to him that Varent did not particularly like Tobias.
“What will you do should she refuse?”
It was on the tip of his tongue to mention Reba’s prophecy to the ambassador. There was something about Varent that elicited trust, and Calandryll thought he might obtain sound guidance from the older man. Was he, perhaps, the friend Reba had forecast? But it was too soon; he was not yet sure enough: he said, “I do not know, my lord.”
Varent’s dark eyes were contemplative as he studied Calandryll’s face and it seemed he was about to speak, but Bylath claimed his attention and he turned to answer the Domm. Calandryll applied himself to the food set before him and for a while he was ignored, left to his own thoughts, which turned like a dog chasing its own tail back to Nadama.
He was relieved when the eating was done; then alarmed again when Bylath rose to his feet, compelling the hall to silence. He had no need of a crier to gain attention. His height and natural air of command were impressive enough.
“We have today agreed treaties of great import,” the Domm announced, “unprecedented in the history of Lysse. Secca joins in alliance with Aldarin that we may defeat the Kand pirates.”
A roar of approval greeted the declaration. Bylath gestured for silence.
“Eryn will build the ships, but they will be manned by the warriors of our two cities. We have yet to decide the levies needed to finance the venture, and so my councillors shall attend me on the morrow.” His eyes scanned the hall as though warning those nobles likely to object to such taxation, daunting as swords. “But know now that my son, Tobias, shall command the ships of Secca with the title of admiral.”
