by A. J. Smith
It was a crisp day, with clear, blue skies and a cold wind blowing from the Outer Sea. I’d risen early, and eaten smoked eel for breakfast. I’d sat alone, on a secluded terrace, at the base of the Eagle House. I preferred to eat alone, though my thoughts habitually turned dark when no one was talking to me. I needed company, but disliked conversation. I had few friends, but many attendants. Their chatter kept my mind occupied, though my own lack of verbosity marked me as grumpy or sullen to most. I didn’t really care, as I found few people interesting. The commander of Falcon’s Watch, the order tasked with guarding me, attempted often to start a conversation. I enjoyed his company, and found him interesting, but I had nothing to say in return. Eventually he stopped trying to talk to me.
“Your father wants to see you,” said my mother, appearing in my isolated world and making me smile. The Lady Natasha Dawn Claw was another of the few people who could accomplish such a feat. She put a hand on my shoulder and gently squeezed. “He wants nothing of you. Just to see you.” She was tall and slender, with blue eyes that had cried so much they had no more tears to give.
“Can he talk?” I asked.
“Alaric has soothed him for now. The… ranting has ended.”
I stood and embraced my mother. We’d both been cut to pieces by him in the previous week, our insecurities spat at us through a frothing mouth. My father was always an abrasive man, but never cruel. Fever now robbed him of his filters. My mother had been insulted for only producing one living child. I’d been chided, at length, about my lack of marriage and children. He was suddenly concerned about his legacy in a way I’d never known. He ranted about the Kingdom of the Four Claws and how it needed a man of the Dawn Claw. But most of all he ranted of his disappointment at his only son. When he ran out of things to shout at us, his mind turned to the past. He mumbled about his friend, Lord Ulric Blood, and how he sat in the broken shell of the Severed Hand, slowly going mad. He growled about the three Cyclone brothers of the Dark Brethren, and how they’d ruined the Kingdom. My father believed that his age was ending, and that lesser men would tarnish the world he’d helped build.
I let her take my hand and lead me back into the Eagle House. The bottom levels were the ceremonial heart of First Port. They served no practical function, aside from the value of their beauty. Golden tapestries and silver frescos covered every surface, from the shining marble floors, to the high, arched ceilings. Winterlord knights of Falcon’s Watch, adorned in the finest armour, held long spears and patrolled in endless lines and odd patterns, fulfilling old duties. They were called the Starlight Halls, and were off-limits to most citizens of the hold. Stone steps led to the third level of the Eagle House, cutting off access to the lower levels. All useful functions of the building took place on the third level and above.
We picked up armoured guards, somewhere in the Starlight Halls, and ascended the huge building, towards my father’s rooms. The decorations never became humble, but they lessened in ostentation the further up the building you travelled. I’d been born here, nursed and grown here, and had never been away for more than a month since I became a man. My longest journey away had been a three-week trip to the Diamond Isles, when my father treated with the Lady of Rust and the Sundered Claws.
My mother paused in front of the Always King’s bed chamber. She’d been sleeping elsewhere, and no longer thought of the room as hers. “Be gentle,” she asked. “His last memories of his son may yet be cloaked in love.”
I rubbed a hand down my face, trying to clear my head. Few things caused me pause. Enemies and conflicts were easy; diplomacy and fake smiles were shallow and routine; but being face to face with King Christophe Dawn Claw, called the Shining Sword, reminded me of how insignificant I truly was. So many deeds were attributed to him and his blades that I could barely count them. He’d ended the Friendly Wars, brought Nibonay to heel in the Second Battle of Tranquillity and presided over the most stable peace the Kingdom of the Four Claws had ever known. But now he was a mad old man, dying slowly to spite the world.
I opened the door and was face to face with Alaric Sees the Setting Sun, my father’s haggard spirit-master. Half his face was burned, though he never covered the wound, and made sure everyone saw his scars. That is to say the old man enjoyed scaring people. “He is himself, my prince,” said Alaric. “It won’t last, but for now, the Shining Sword breathes and thinks.”
My mother let me take the lead, motioning that she would stay back and allow me to be alone with my father. She tried to smile, but all she could manage was a crease in her forehead and a softening of her eyes. “We’ll be outside,” she whispered, leading Alaric out of the bedchamber.
I wanted to take a moment to compose myself, but a cough from the bed made me step forwards as soon as the door was closed. Christophe Dawn Claw, my father, was withering away to nothing. I remembered a huge man, with an impossibly straight back, a thick neck and an ability to stare without blinking for an hour. What I saw was half a man, his twitching chest pushing blood through sickly, translucent veins. His white hair clung to his face, and his hands were clasped together within his sweat-covered sheets.
“Are you there, boy?” he wheezed, keeping his eyes shut. “Your mother tells me we spoke yesterday. I don’t remember. What did we talk about?”
My eyes moistened. We had spoken, and he’d called me a fucking disgrace to my name… amongst other things. Yesterday he’d appeared mostly concerned with my lack of marriage. The day before, my lack of children. Not that he called them children. To the Always King they were heirs, Winterlords of the Dawn Claw. At least they would be if his only son had fathered any.
“We talked of battle, my lord. You told me about the Year of Slaughter, when the Bloody Fang sent thirty fire-ships into the Open Hand. The beginning of the Friendly Wars.”
The Always King coughed a second time, concealing a sly chuckle. His wrinkled face softened, as if a benevolent old man still lurked within his deteriorating mind. “Still teaching you things, Ollie. Wish I could live forever and teach you everything there is to know. What did we learn from the Year of Slaughter?”
I stood over him, amazed at how frail he appeared. He reached up, with a shrivelled arm, and cleared the hair from his face. He scratched at the patchy remains of his beard, and opened his eyes for the first time. They were red and swollen, but still emotional.
“We learned...” I took a deep breath and gently grasped his hand. “We learned that the Sea Wolves and the Dark Brethren will fight… until the Winterlords speak.”
“Good,” he replied, nodding his head. “Good, good, good. My father waited too long, so I had to speak for him. Use your voice, boy. The word of a Dawn Claw can shake the very earth.” His eyes closed and he slumped, his face becoming a mask of complicated emotions. “I love you, Oliver. Please believe that. Kind words do not come easily for me.”
I tried not to cry, but failed, and two lines of tears flowed down my cheeks, making me twitch and screw up my face.
“It’s important to me,” continued the Always King. “You’re my son, and I want to be proud of you, but I must tell you the truth...” He gulped, the thin skin of his throat heaving with the effort it took to breath normally. “The truth, Ollie. You must be king, but you are so very unsuited to the throne.” He clasped my hand tightly. “Your body is strong and your mind is thoughtful, but your heart… your heart is weak. Those whom you must fight have hearts of iron, or no hearts at all. You are unmatched, blade in hand, but vulnerable in all other theatres. You’d be a pampered prince, if only you’d accepted pampering. You’d be an arrogant bully, but it’s not in your nature. You are a man of the Dawn Claw, but you lack the fortitude to rule. Hard decisions are beyond you… and yet you must be king or the Dark Brethren will assume power.”
I gritted my teeth and wiped tears from my face. His words were no revelation, for he felt he knew what a man of the Dawn Claw should be. I’d always believed that, once I became king, I’d understand what it meant. I was a
ngry that he chose to judge me unworthy in such a way, but I wouldn’t let my anger show, nor would I call a dying king an arrogant old man.
“I have no way to prove you wrong,” I replied. “But you are wrong… and I know you love me, and I know you’re disappointed in me.” I patted his hand and placed it on his skeletal chest. “You should sleep, my lord. You can teach me everything there is to know when you awaken. And maybe… I’ll teach you a few things.”
“I’m sorry,” he grunted. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you see the world. I’m sorry I kept you at First Point. It’s my fault you are weak.”
“You let me go camping on Raptor’s Nest,” I replied. “A time or two.”
He rubbed his face, as if dismissing my response. “The two pillars of rule, Oliver. You need the Dawn Claw and the Silver Parliament if you are to be recognized as Always King. I dismiss you to the Silver Dawn to await my passing… Show no weakness… Try to be a true Forever King… whatever it costs you.” He closed his eyes, and it was clear that he was finished talking.
“Father,” I whispered. “My king. Hear a last word from your son.” I placed a hand on his forehead, and stroked back his hair, feeling the mottled creases of his skin. I hoped he could still hear me. “I’ve not been tested as you have. I’ve lived my life in peace. I don’t really like people… and they tend not to like me.” I took a deep breath. “But I will be king, I must be king… My life will have meant nothing otherwise. I only wish you could see me as the Forever King of the Eastron, for I will honour the house of Dawn Claw.” I gritted my teeth and bowed my head, before leaning down and kissing his forehead. “Goodbye, my king,” I whispered, before turning from his bed and leaving the chamber. I knew it was the last time I would see him alive.
*
The Silver Parliament was founded in the eighty-first year of the dark age, when King Hector Dawn Claw, my great-grandfather, left the Silver Dawn and retreated to First Port. He claimed that the political conniving of the Dark Brethren had made him weary, though Catalina Lark Song, in her famous book of poetics, said that he ran away. Whatever his motivation, or his weakness, the parliament he left in his wake had ruled the Kingdom of the Four Claws ever since. Initially, the five envoys consisted of two Winterlords and one each from the other Eastron camps. In reality, the seats held by the Wolves who sail and the Wolves who kneel had rarely been occupied, giving the Brethren ample opportunity to dominate the parliament.
“Highness, your mind is elsewhere,” observed Silver Jack. “Perhaps you should bring it back here.”
Jago Eclipse had led us into a dingy alleyway, far from the Great Serpent and the first bridge. We’d travelled east, then north, then east again, drawing fewer eyes the further from the parliament we travelled. Our reluctant guide had been given no chance to double-cross us, as David Falcon’s Fang had stayed within an inch of him during the journey, and my adjutant punctuated his dominance with frequent slaps to the back of Jago’s head.
“My mind is right where it needs to be,” I replied.
“We turn south at the end of this alley,” said Jago, rubbing the back of his head. “It’s the Low Eclipse. Lots of Pure Ones, no assassins or mercenaries.”
David slapped him, eliciting a grunt of pained irritation from the Dark Brethren.
“Stop fucking hitting me.”
He was slapped again, this time by Silver Jack. “He’ll keep hitting you as long as his distrust lasts.”
“You tried to kill the prince,” offered David. “My distrust is limitless.”
I let them assert their dominance, and wandered along the alleyway. I’d never seen this part of the Silver Dawn. It was dirty and congested, with buildings plonked together in haphazard lines and strange clusters. The Pure Ones lived differently to the Eastron. Their buildings had few windows, and the narrow streets were devoid of random citizens. I imagined them confined in their circular homes, waiting patiently until the Eastron required their labour. Or maybe the richness of their culture was lived behind closed doors, and each dwelling contained a smiling family, gathered together around a fire, surrounded by vibrant colours and native trappings I could never understand.
“Highness,” said Silver Jack. “Your mind’s wandering again.”
“And it will continue to do so,” I replied, “until we reach the Silver Parliament.”
Jago motioned to the end of the alleyway, and David allowed him to lead the way. Two circular buildings, with roofs of golden thatch, flanked a narrow crossroads. To the right, a cluster of Pure Ones were just leaving the street, taking baskets of clothes into one of the flanking buildings. Straight ahead, staring at us, but evidently too startled to leave, were three young Ysalite children, one girl and two boys. They wore canvas clothing, with bare arms and shins, and colourful beads coiled around their wrists.
I smiled down at them, fully aware of how bizarre and scary I must look to the Pure One children. “You don’t need to be afraid,” I said, shoving Jago out of the way and crouching down. “I only hurt bad people. I’m your friend.”
The oldest of the three children, a girl of seven or eight years, took a step forwards and crossed her arms at me, as if to say she wasn’t afraid of the big man in metal. The other two were wide-eyed and looked as if they wanted nothing more than to run away.
“You’re not my friend and you don’t scare me, Invader,” said the girl. “My father is scary. You’re just big. My father could beat you in a fight… if he wanted.”
My smile broadened. “I’m sure he could,” I replied. “I hope never to find out. No doubt your father is a good man, and I don’t hurt good men.” For some reason it was important that she believed me. “I’m to be your king… one day soon.”
“Highness,” prompted Silver Jack. “When you’re ready.”
I ignored him and maintained eye contact with the Ysalite girl, trying to appear as the least threatening version of myself. “Go back to your play, and give no mind to Invaders like me.”
A sound reached my ears, appearing above the ambient chatter of the Low Eclipse. It began as a distant tapping, gaining weight and volume as I stood up from the native girl.
“Highness, we have trouble,” murmured Jack, as the tapping became a rhythmic clank of metal, and the Ysalite children ran away.
Marching down the left-hand street came a narrow column of warriors, armoured in black breastplates and anonymous, winged helmets, fashioned into the likeness of an owl. They were void legionnaires, with the imperious Night Wing emblazoned on every chest. The totem of the Dark Brethren was an arrogant spirit, standing for little but dominance and fear. It was powerful, but lacked the nobility of our own Dawn Claw or the honour of the Sea Wolves’ totem, the Old Bitch of the Sea. I counted spears and reached two dozen, before David pulled me back out of the narrow street.
“The tenth void legion,” said Jago Eclipse, grinning at me through brown teeth and pink gums. “Yanos Wolf Bane had them guarding the Great Serpent, to stop you crossing. He must have heard that you left the Golden Keep.”
Silver Jack wrestled him into a headlock. “Highness, perhaps we should fall back to friendly ground.”
“The legionnaires have no authority outside of the parliament,” offered David.
Jack snorted at the young duellist, and roughly manoeuvred Jago back down the alley. “Up an eagle’s arse and up an owl’s arse with that naive shit.”
I paused, turning from my aides and poking my head back around the corner. The void legionnaires had slowed, taking the time to clear the street of Pure Ones. A handful, from either flank of the column, had begun kicking over baskets and searching the side streets. By their manner, it was clear that they expected trouble. I considered whether or not to give it to them. Twenty soldiers was too many for three Winterlords, though the location favoured us.
“Highness… Prince Oliver.” Jack was becoming agitated. “Remove violence from your mind. We’re not fighting them.”
I frowned, as another sound eclipsed the cl
ank of the void legionnaires. It was a shout from behind the Dark Brethren, followed by the loud thump of many running feet. “We may not be fighting them,” I replied. “But someone is.”
Silver Jack stayed with Jago, but David joined me, peering around the corner. The young duellist and I looked at each other as more shouting sounded from down the side street. The void legionnaires had turned away from us, and a few had lowered their spears to meet some new threat. I couldn’t see who approached, but they made at least as much noise as the Brethren, with slivery blue flashes of wyrd appearing through every gap in the melee.
“Who would openly attack void legionnaires?” mused David.
The fight started slowly, and beyond our line of sight, as whoever attacked did so methodically, cutting down the legionnaires a line at a time. Heavy bladed greatswords slowly became visible above shields and spears, and silver helms appeared. They had great spiritual power, and used it to overpower their enemies. The Brethren had been looking for me, and were prepared to fight and subdue three or four men. They were not prepared for the sudden assault of twenty Winterlord knights with superior wyrd.
“There’s your answer,” I replied, as silver helms and greatswords were joined by steel armour, displaying a rampant falcon, with talons bared.
Void legionnaires were skilled and highly disciplined, but the warriors that attacked them were elite, using their greatswords to chop downwards in brutal unison, with their powerful wyrd deflecting spears and allowing them to focus on offence. When cutting down warriors in a narrow city street, the knights appeared larger than life, with a nimbus of light surrounding each one.
“Falcon’s Watch,” I muttered. “My mother clearly doesn’t trust my choice of guardian.” I glanced behind at Silver Jack. “Or perhaps my father thinks I need additional protection.”
