Dreamspinner Press Year Five Greatest Hits

by Tinnean

  “Not a sound,” Ehron warned him, releasing his sister and turning to Penn. “And how goes the world by you, shadow?”

  A slow smile spread across Penn’s face until he was absolutely beaming at Gareth’s older brother. “I had forgotten that.”

  Ehron hugged Penn tightly, then pushed him away playfully and turned to the man standing beside him. “Gareth and Penn have been inseparable since they were pups. Penn was left in our stables when he was merely three seasons—”

  “Two seasons,” Gareth smiled, interrupting gently for the sake of clarity. He cuffed his friend lightly on the arm. “He has been my shadow for a lifetime.”

  “It is good to have a shadow,” the man agreed. “Ehron knows of what you speak.”

  Ehron released a snort of laughter. “He speaks loud, as he has saved my life so often that he can no longer recall the count.”

  All eyes turned to the young man standing beside Ehron. No one had noticed the companion at first, too overwhelmed with the return of a firstborn son. But now they saw him, and only then, surprisingly, did they notice the cowl.

  His entire face was lost in voluminous material that tumbled forward but also in front of his face, so that there were two pieces, one a normal cowl on a robe that fell from the top of his head to his feet, and a second sewn into the lining to drape over the man’s face. He could see out, but no one could see in, his features completely obscured.

  “Father,” Ehron said, clamping a heavy hand down on his friend’s shoulder, “this is my consul, Daemon Shar, that I wrote of.”

  Torbald squinted at the man who was now pressing his hand to his heart and bowing low. He had been startled to see an apparition and not a man, Ehron never once explaining in any letter that his consul, his servant, the man who commanded his private guard, was not a citizen of Rieyn. And he couldn’t be one of them, as his remarkable clothing suggested some sort of grave difference. “Look to me.”

  Daemon lifted his head, but there was only black. “My lord.”

  Torbald grew even more apprehensive. It was difficult to look at nothing but darkness. He wanted to see eyes, a face, take in the features of the man beneath the cowl, but as Ehron did not demand the unveiling, neither could he. But to look and see no more than if you were standing in the dark… it was disconcerting. To give voice to his apprehension, though, would be unheard of.

  Daemon Shar was his son’s consul, the man he trusted more than any other in the world, as was evidenced by his place in Ehron’s rank of men. On the battlefield, Ehron had a triari, his second-in-command, and below him his many legates, and reporting to them were his men, the legionnaires. Away from the front, the personal guard that protected each prefect was headed by a consul. Every aspect of the prefect’s life, from food and shelter to security and funds were overseen by one man, and in Ehron’s case, the man he had chosen was now standing in front of Torbald, cloaked in black.

  “Father?” Ehron asked after a moment, unsure of what was transpiring.

  “Where is your homeland, Consul?”

  “Narsyk.”

  Torbald nodded. “You are far from the plains you call home.”

  Daemon drew in breath. “You know Narsyk.”

  “I traveled there during the Unification Wars long seasons ago.” The older man smiled, hearing the wistful sound of the Consul’s murmur. “But it was beautiful. The sea of grassland, the mountains, and I have never ridden such horses as I did there.”

  Daemon nodded, smiling wide beneath the cowl. “You make me yearn for it.”

  “As well as myself.” Torbald cleared his throat. “You served Ehron during the war?”

  “Aye, my lord,” came the husky reply as Daemon bowed deeply again.

  “I thank you for your kinship.”

  “It was my good fortune,” Daemon replied, straightening up.

  “Nay,” Ehron said seriously, staring down at Daemon with soft eyes. “It was mine.”

  “Come,” Odessa cooed, stepping between the two, taking an arm of each man to lead him back up the stairs. “Come, my son, come, Daemon Shar, break bread with us, and speak tales.”

  Inside the enormous stone keep, the warmth of the home became instantly apparent.

  “Is it not all that I told you?” Ehron prodded his friend as he breathed in the smells of home, stared at walls covered in tapestries and armor, and smiled at the fire roaring in the hearth.

  “What a grand home you have,” Daemon breathed, patting Odessa’s arm as he untangled himself from her clutching hand to stroll about the cavernous room. He looked down at the stone floor and knelt to inspect it. The masonry seemed to fascinate him, and Odessa soon lost interest in the curious man, consumed instead with her newly returned son. Not all eyes left Daemon. Amelina’s interest did not waver, struck as she was with him.

  Unlike the opulent garments that Amelina had seen in the marketplace being worn home by both nobility and soldier alike, Daemon wore only breeches tucked into knee-high boots, long black gloves, and the rest… the rest was obscured by the full-length, form-fitting robe. It reminded her of a priest’s soutane, especially since it buttoned down the front to the waist, where it fell open to reveal his waist and legs that she had seen at first glance. She wondered why such a garment was necessary. What was he hiding beneath the black cassock?

  She watched Daemon for a few more moments before her mother asked her to take a seat beside her brother.

  Once Odessa had everyone sitting down around the long family dining table, she summoned the kitchen staff and ordered the hasty preparation of the evening meal. They had not expected him, reports having come that he was still several days away, but Odessa had stocked all her son’s favorites, sweet meats, fhana eggs, ripe yoke melons, rhodonberries with thick cream, spiced rice, figs, grapes, venison, and Cretah wine that Torbald had traveled to Tamburin for over a month ago. Liena, their cook, had baked fresh brown bread, and there was elice oil in which to dip it. All this Odessa had remembered for her son, hoping that his tastes had not changed in ten years.

  While they all waited for the food to be served, Daemon was able to drift away silently in the absence of any attention centered on him. Ehron was begged to speak of his adventures and so began to flesh out the war first-hand for his attentive family. Daemon strolled the great hall before mounting the massive central stairs leading to the second floor. He admired the wall hangings, painted portraits, armor, and antique weapons. The tapestries he examined carefully, amazed at the intricacy and the swirls of rich color running together. He peeked into private rooms, admiring the wide-vaulted chambers with high featherbeds covered in linen and woven wool blankets. The hallways were long, lined with small lanterns that hung from the ceiling, bringing light even into the smallest crack and corner. Through all the rooms he wandered, while Ehron sat with his family and ate and drank.

  “Where is Daemon?” Ehron growled suddenly, stopping in mid-sentence when he discovered his friend missing. He looked around the hall in fear, eyes scanning but finding nothing but gaping space. How long had he been talking? How long had Daemon been gone? He realized suddenly that it might have been hours.

  “I did not mark his leaving,” Torbald grunted, filling his son’s goblet again with thick red wine, oblivious to Ehron’s mounting anxiety.

  “I marked him,” Amelina said softly, turning bright pink when both her brothers looked at her curiously. “He went to the sleeping chambers. I spied him briefly on the balcony.”

  “Will a soul go fetch the blessed before he starves,” Torbald said, speaking fondly now of Daemon, his earlier uncertainty giving way to affection as he had listened to story after story of how well the servant had cared for his son. Ehron spoke almost no words that did not contain his consul’s name.

  Penn, Amelina, and Gareth all rose at the same time in answer to Torbald’s request, each ready to go forth and seek the servant. Odessa laughed gently at the show of interest.

  Gareth and Penn immediately sat back down, which sen
t Odessa into peals of throaty laughter. Amelina bowed her head coyly, then excused herself from her family. As she was crossing the floor, the main door opened and one of the Terhazien servants entered with a messenger.

  “My lord,” he addressed Torbald, bowing deeply. “There is an urgent missive from Baron Ander.”

  Gareth and Penn both watched intently as Torbald motioned for the man to approach. “Have him fed and quartered in the barracks for the night.”

  “Aye, my lord,” the servant replied, motioning for the messenger to follow him back out of the hall.

  “A letter from Kohl,” Ehron grunted. “Is that not odd?”

  “Not of late,” Gareth sighed, filling his glass with wine. “He seeks an alliance with father. We have been fair drowned in letters from the man.”

  Ehron smiled warmly at his brother. “Tell me, how goes the world with Baron Ander? How bends his desire?”

  “To Amelina and his Veran.” Gareth lifted a glass to the thought, one brow arched. “Kohl seeks a match well made. He has been courting father for cycles.”

  “Has he?” Ehron grinned, sharing a look with Gareth.

  “Come now,” Penn began gently. “To whom but the son of another baron may Amelina be wed?

  “Indeed,” Ehron nodded. “A match between the house of Ander and the house of Terhazien would be powerful, would it not?”

  “It would,” Gareth said dramatically, “and you know as well as I do, Ehron, that we must secure the fate of our house in the changing landscape of the empire.” He finished, sounding rote, repeating, verbatim, his father’s words from many previous tirades.

  Ehron snorted out a laugh. “You hear this as well, do you?

  Gareth could not help but smile. “I do, from father here, but from whom do you bear this now-familiar rant?”

  Ehron grunted, smiling, rolling his eyes. “I am reminded of my place, my land, and my house every day from my consul. He drives it into me with a hammer and nail.”

  Gareth was smiling wide. “I too am pounded on in relentless—”

  “Silence,” Torbald hissed at his youngest son before turning to look at his oldest. “I would hear the concerns of your consul Daemon Shar.”

  Ehron grinned wide. “He’s possessed, father.”

  “Tell me.”

  The scoff from the back of his throat ended in a deep chuckle. “Well, we were at war, as you recall, but in the middle of this chaos, my consul has me sending gifts to the son of the warlord.”

  “Gifts?” Torbald leaned forward. “What sort of gifts?”

  Ehron sighed deeply before leaning back on the bench. “The army rations are horrid, father. Stale bread, old wine, dried meat… you know; you were a soldier. ’Tis vile, and so instead of eating simply what we are served, my consul hunted. Every day he hunted, and while others would find the occasional rabbit or squirrel, Daemon Shar returns with deer, boar, quail, pheasant, and sometimes goat.”

  “Mountain goat?”

  “Aye,” Ehron nodded, “mountain goat.”

  “How? That would mean that he was hunting up high above the—”

  “Aye, father, he hunts where the wolves do, in snow far too deep and heavy for a man to stride through.”

  “And what does he do with this bounty that he brings forth from the mountain?”

  Ehron smirked at him. “Hear this,” he said, leaning forward, and everyone followed suit. “He takes half of the game he catches and delivers it to the son of the warlord, Ram Troen, in my name.”

  Torbald stared at his son, a sudden flush of excitement surging through him. If his son was already courting the son of the warlord, perhaps Torbald did not have to marry off his jewel of a daughter, did not need to push for a match with the house of Ander if Ehron had already found favor. “And have you become close to the son of the warlord?”

  “Aye.” Ehron grinned wide. “After cycles of this treatment, Ram Troen invited me to his tent so that we might dine together alone, just he and I.”

  “But you—”

  “Normally we all dine together in the eating tent, all the prefects together, but not Ram, never Ram. Though he is a prefect himself, he is still, as you know, shield bearer as well as being the son of the warlord. He does not need to take his meals with the rest of us dregs.”

  “Surely Mycah Ilen, son of the overlord… surely he dined with Ram?” Gareth asked.

  Ehron shook his head. “The second legion fought on a different front than the rest of us. The Iron Horse did no mountain fighting; that is not where the strength of the mounted charge lies. Mycah could not move the cavalry through the cold and terrain.”

  Torbald nodded, waiting.

  “So there were four of us there in camp, myself and two other prefects and the shield bearer. But after receiving the gifts of game, Ram invited me to dine with him alone and there asked me to provide meat for his father’s table when he was in camp as well.”

  “For the warlord himself?” Torbald breathed out.

  “A greedy request in time of war.” Gareth scowled.

  “Agreed, but Daemon did it, pleased to do so, to secure my favor.”

  “And did he?”

  “Aye, father, he did, and soon I was dining with Ram at every meal and with the warlord whenever he brought his men through.”

  Torbald held his breath. His son had included none of this in his letters, and he knew why. Even sealed correspondence was sometimes opened and then discarded. Daemon’s hunting and gifting of the spoils was no one’s business but Ehron’s. “So you were able to secure favor with both the shield bearer and the warlord?”

  “Aye, father, with meat and wine as well as the bond between men, your son is one of two men vying for the rank of Shield Bearer of Rieyn. The choice is between Akasus Jaan, Prefect of the Third Legion, and me, Prefect of the First.”

  As the war was over, being a prefect, war hero, was a dated honor soon relegated to glorious memory and sometime counsel of the warlord. The three positions of power that mattered were that of warlord, overlord, and shield bearer. The Shield, as the people spoke of the title, was the one in charge of the standing army, who sent out conscription orders when needed, who saw to the military safekeeping of the country. The overlord saw to all domestic affairs; the warlord concerned himself with the garrisons in conquered countries and wars abroad. Over all of them was the archlord, the supreme ruler. It was an understandable division of power.

  During the Festival of Heroes held in the capital city of Tristan, it was known that the present warlord, Nictorus Troen, would step down and pass the mantle of power to his son, Ram. The overlord, Janah Ilen, would also pass his power to his son Mycah. When Ram became warlord, the post of shield bearer that he presently held would be vacant, and now, it seemed, the honor of filling it might be won by Ehron Terhazien.

  If a baron did not find favor with the warlord, the overlord, or the archlord, then his barony could be taxed into poverty and his land, title, and gold stripped away. Torbald Terhazien had always enjoyed a strong relationship with Janah Ilen, Overlord of Rieyn, but in recent years the demand for gold and resources like wheat and lumber had been high. With all Janah’s concentration on domestic concerns, work for veterans returning home, civic projects, and his son Mycah at war, the youngest son Braedhn had been serving as his father’s regent. His last demand had been for land itself, and when Torbald had respectfully declined the offer to sell vast acres, he had been threatened. Kohl Ander had been threatened as well, and this was what had prompted his proposition to Torbald to unite their houses against the threat. But now Ehron was telling him that he was in line to become shield bearer, was favored so highly of Ram Troen that even if the position were not given him, then at least they could go to the son of the warlord, soon to be warlord himself, for aid.

  A chuckle brought Torbald from his thoughts. He looked up and found his oldest son smiling at him. “Ehron?”

  “You seem pleased.” He smiled at his father.

  “Your con
sul is wise,” Torbald concluded. “Very wise.”

  “Aye,” Ehron agreed, “he is.”

  Odessa raised her glass, gazing lovingly at her eldest son. “Let us be thankful for Ehron’s safe return from the war. Blessed are the gods in their mercy.”

  “Aye,” Torbald agreed, “raise a glass to Ehron.”

  All glasses were touched together at the same time, and then everyone drank at once.

  “Speak of the letter,” Penn said as soon as he swallowed. “We have mused on the contents; let us now know the words.”

  No one cared about the letter anymore. It no longer mattered what it said. Ehron was favored by Ram Troen; it was all Torbald cared about.

  Torbald opened the parchment and read through the page quickly before answering. “It seems that Kohl has heard the news, too, that Ehron is to be presented with the Gold Cluster in Tristan during the Festival of Heroes and sends his regards and looks forward to seeing us all there.” Word had been received a week ago that Ehron was to receive the honor in a letter to Torbald from the warlord himself delivered by Imperial courier. Torbald had been overwhelmed at the missive.

  “It is unfortunate that we could not travel with him,” Ehron interrupted his father’s thoughts.

  “Pardon?”

  “Traveling with Baron Ander,” Ehron explained. “We might have taken the opportunity to learn if Kohl had made any alliances we should know of. His land borders yours, father. We would do well to know his thoughts.”

  Torbald’s eyebrows rose as he regarded his son.

  Ehron chuckled, seeing the expression on his father’s face. “Daemon says that you must know the mind of your enemy even before your ally.”

  “Your consul is indeed wise,” he told his son.

  “I cannot find that man,” Amelina announced loudly, clearly frustrated, walking back into the room. “It is as though he has vanished.”

  Ehron rose quickly and left the table without a word. Soon after, Daemon strolled into the room by way of the long corridor that connected the Great Hall to the kitchen, bake house, and brew house.