There was another laugh, all around him this time, which put him entirely at ease. Almost with a mind of its own, his hand moved toward the rock. His heart raced as he was mesmerised by the beautiful blue glow dancing across the surface of the rock. The glow coalesced and enveloped his hand with a speed that surprised him. He made to pull his hand away, but realised it had not done him any harm.
There was no temperature to it. Other than a slight tingling, he would not have even noticed it. The glow lasted a moment longer and then it was gone, leaving Aethelman in darkness. The sense of curiosity that had invigorated him fled, and he felt the darkness close in around him again. He took a deep breath, knowing that unless the laughter were to guide him back out, he would be fated to remain there until he died. Why had the laughter led him there in the first place, if only to leave him to die?
He closed his eyes and rubbed them hard to give them some relief from the great, swirling darkness. He opened them again, and everywhere his eyes fell, he saw runes, runes glowing as though they were filled with flame. He took another sharp intake of breath, and with little care for his footing, started toward those closest.
18
AETHELMAN
‘Shrine of Audun the Wise’ were the first words Aethelman read, answering his question. While that was the god’s proper title, it had not been used in that form for centuries. The runes went on to tell several of the stories of Audun’s deeds when he still walked the world of men, some that continued to be recounted by the Grey Priests, others long since forgotten. Aethelman had read a number of them, fascinated by how the runes now glowed, before he realised he was able to decipher them. Hours before, when these runes carved into the cavern walls had been cloaked in darkness, he would not have been able to identify a single one of the carvings.
As Jorundyr’s gift to man was great prowess in battle, something with which he believed the boy Wulfric had been bestowed, Audun’s was knowledge. He was one of the patron gods of the Grey Priests, the other being Birgyssa the Kind, and it amazed Aethelman that his shrine could be forgotten. He looked around, and realised the cavern was not as large as he had first thought. Its walls were completely covered in runes, all glowing. It would take hours, perhaps days, to read it all, but Aethelman doubted there was so great a store of knowledge anywhere else in the Hermitage or its ancient depths.
He moved along the wall slowly, taking in each rune carefully, but the meaning of each one was clear to him. They were as familiar as the back of his own hand. The Fount Stones were of the same age as the runes, and Aethelman felt his excitement rise as he read, hoping that eventually he would come to a mention of them. He felt a pang of regret that he no longer had the one he’d found, for he realised he would now be able to read everything inscribed upon its surface.
Aethelman scanned and disregarded tale after tale of Audun’s deeds and grew frustrated. He had covered half the cavern, but there were only stories intended to spread the god’s repute. There was nothing that mentioned the Stones. Finally, he reached something more relevant:
With each day, the power of the shrine diminished. The blue light of Audun’s presence grew ever fainter until at times it was no longer visible at all. There was much discussion as to why this should be so, and most opinion was in agreement: We drew too heavily on his beneficence, we sought to exclude all others from his grace, and our greed pushed us from his favour.
Others argued that he would wish our survival as his chosen, and that his grace was there for our use. With the Emperor’s mages hunting us like game and their desire to extinguish the light of the gods from this world and to replace them with fictional deities of their own, it was our duty to do what we needed to survive, and ensure that Audun, Birgyssa, Jorundyr, Ghyda, and Agnarr the Father are not forgotten.
That was when we created the Fount Stones here, and in so doing finally extinguished Audun’s light in the world of men. For better or for worse, that was our choice, and may he forgive us if we were mistaken. Nothing remains here now, but a memory of what once was. I pray he may restore life to this place, but I know we will be remembered only for our legacy then. We will leave the cavern, and the Rock, in the hope that without our interference, he may look favourably on man once again, and return to this place.
Aethelman looked back to the shadowy form of the rock, silhouetted against the burning runes. It was no more remarkable than any other lump of rock, any trace of the blue glow now gone. It seemed Audun had used up what little strength he had pooled at the rock to give Aethelman the ability to read the ancient runes. This was where the Stones had been created. Perhaps this was also where they could be laid to rest.
He scanned the rest of the wall, but there was no more mention of the Stones. Wherever the answer lay, it was not here. However, with his newfound ability to read the old runes, many more avenues were open to him.
The burning runes led Aethelman back to the cavern’s entrance. As soon as he stepped out of it they were extinguished, as though it was only his presence that had kept them alight. He knew where he had to go next. The ruins of the old temple where he had found the Stone were covered in runes that had been meaningless to him at the time. Now they might hold the answers he sought. There was an irony to think his quest might end where it had begun.
RODULF
Rodulf’s heart raced as he walked through the foyer toward the Markgraf’s audience hall. He had been kept waiting all morning, hanging around the palace’s foyer like an unwelcome salesman. He was dressed in his newly purchased southern clothes, as well as the fur-lined grey cloak of a nobleman. He carried the pearl-rimmed coronet, as it felt ridiculous to wear, and in any event he was not yet a baron. His retainers followed him, wearing uniforms that the tailor had also rushed, which awaited the addition of his coat of arms. It had all cost him a small fortune, but at least they looked the part to his eye. He only hoped they all looked that way to the Markgraf’s court.
They followed one of the Markgraf’s servants to huge double doors, which opened onto the audience hall. It was not as large as Rodulf had expected, but a number of people were gathered there. They all turned to look when Rodulf walked in, making him feel as uncomfortable as he ever had. He puffed out his chest and forced himself to look straight ahead.
He could hear whispers as he walked by, and didn’t fool himself into thinking they were complimentary. He wasn’t one of them, and they wanted him to know it. He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of reacting, but he cast a sideways glance. He would not forget these faces.
His ennoblement was only one small part of the day’s official business—and as monumental an achievement as it was for Rodulf, no one else cared. The servant bade Rodulf stop, then hurried forward to confer with one of the Markgraf’s officials. The Markgraf cocked his head to listen, but had his eyes fixed on Rodulf. By reputation he was formidable, a strong ruler who was always looking to expand his territories and wealth, as his annexation of Leondorf had demonstrated. Rodulf wanted to make a good first impression. His fortunes were now tied to this man.
‘Come forward,’ the Markgraf said.
Rodulf did as he was told, his eyes fixed on the Markgraf. He had to appear strong. He tried to gauge the Markgraf as he walked forward. A trim man, his clothes plainer than most in the hall.
‘Rodulf Donatoson,’ the Markgraf said. ‘I welcome you to my court, and accept your entreaty to swear fealty and do homage unto me.’
The official stepped forward and stood next to Rodulf, his mouth close to Rodulf’s ear.
‘Say that it is your solemn and earnest wish,’ the official whispered.
Rodulf did so. The Markgraf nodded in approval.
‘Now, kneel and repeat these words,’ the official whispered. ‘I, Rodulf Donatoson, swear before those gathered that I will in future be faithful and true to Walken, Markgraf of Elzmark, and to those who may follow of his name. I will carry out my responsibilities and obligations to him without deceit, and always in good faith.’
Rodulf did so, enunciating each word as carefully as possible.
The Markgraf nodded in approval again. ‘I, Walken, Markgraf of Elzmark, do recognise and accept your oath, so sworn. Be it known to all men that I freely give to Rodulf Donatoson and the heirs of his body the newly created Barony of Leondorf, and acknowledge him as my liege man. Rise, Rodulf, Baron of Leondorf.’
Rodulf stood. All through the swearing, a scribe sat at a small table behind the Markgraf, scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment. He sprinkled it with powder and stood, presenting the document to the Markgraf. He gave it a cursory scan and indicated his acceptance with a wave of his hand. That done, the scribe melted some red wax onto the parchment, into which the Markgraf pressed his ring. The scribe offered the sealed document to Rodulf.
He took it reverently. It marked the culmination of all his and his father’s hard work. It also put into the shade the shame and failure of having not been made a warrior. He was so much more than that now. After looking over the scribe’s elegant hand and the crest pressed into the wax, Rodulf felt awkward, standing out in front of everyone with no clue what he should do.
‘The Markgraf requires you to attend on him at nine bells of the morning, tomorrow,’ the official said, leaving Rodulf in no doubt that his investiture ceremony was over, and that he was now in the way.
ADALHAID
There were many moments when Adalhaid wondered if she had made a mistake transferring to the School of Medicine. Most of those were when she was rushing from one lecture or meeting she had arrived at late to another she was going to arrive at late. It was obvious to her why she had never met a medical student before—they were too busy. Added to her duties at the palace, she was stretched as far as she had ever been, and looked forward to her bed each evening with a desire she had not thought possible.
As eager as she was, she stopped dead in her tracks when she spotted Rodulf walking from the audience hall with a small retinue, wearing a baron’s gown. Her stomach twisted at the sight. She had always known he would be a strong contender to be awarded the title when Leondorf inevitably fell under the Markgraf’s control. She had not had any news from the village since leaving; there was nothing left to connect her to the place now. Her family were gone, and everyone she knew and cared for with them. That Rodulf was wearing the gown gave her the consolation that his poisonous father must be dead. She wondered if it had been natural causes, or if Rodulf had taken matters into his own hands. The latter certainly wouldn’t have surprised her. She retreated behind a pillar and waited until he was out of sight. She had no desire for a reunion, and hoped he would be returning home soon.
PART II
19
THE MAISTERSPAEKER
The Maisterspaeker paused when the door to the tavern opened, wondering if Wulfric had finally arrived, but the notion was quickly dispelled. It was flung open with the carelessness of men who had no concern for causing damage, bullies who were used to having their way without any opposition.
They were men of arms, pieces of steel and boiled leather armour visible under their cloaks. They pushed their way through the crowd towards the bar, five of them in all. It was not until they reached it that Jagovere realised only four of them had done the pushing. The fifth walked among them with the relaxed air of a man accustomed to having everything done for him. He turned his head, revealing the patch covering his right eye. It was the man the Maisterspaeker had seen several days previously. The man he believed to be Rodulf.
The Maisterspaeker realised Rodulf was looking directly at him and felt his heart quicken. They had only encountered one another briefly, all those years before, but might he remember? The Maisterspaeker had been Jagovere the warrior then, young, strong, without even a hint of grey in his hair. He was the Maisterspaeker now, old, wrinkled, with no trace of blond in his hair. He wondered what Rodulf was doing visiting an inn that was not on his land. Perhaps he knew his own people would poison him, given half the chance?
Rodulf continued to stare and the Maisterspaeker felt uncomfortable under the gaze of his story’s villain. He was bound to have heard the stories before, to know he was considered the greatest dastard in the land. Perhaps he had grown used to it. Perhaps he had distanced himself from it enough to no longer notice, for he wasn’t going by the name ‘Rodulf’ anymore. He called himself Lord Mendorf now. Jagovere smiled as he thought of it. The man before him could not react to the name Rodulf unless he wanted to reveal himself as an imposter—a liar, a traitor, and a murderer. He had done enough in that life to earn himself the death penalty many times over. He would have to swallow whatever insults Jagovere directed at him without reaction. The Maisterspaeker’s smile widened as his mind raced to work out where insults could be worsened and infamy embellished. He met Rodulf’s stare and continued.
RODULF
Rodulf had mixed feelings as he left the Markgraf’s private office the next morning. It was obvious to him that all the Markgraf cared about was the silver, and that boded well for the freedom he would have in pursuing his own ambitions. However, his title and lands felt no more secure now than they had before Ambassador dal Ruedin had named him as baron. It was made abundantly clear that if the silver did not keep coming south in ever-increasing amounts, he would find himself bowing to a different lord in Leondorf.
He had thought the Stone might soften the Markgraf’s demeanour, but he hadn’t so much as batted an eyelid no matter how hard Rodulf channelled his desire through it. Was he using it incorrectly? Was the Markgraf impervious to it? It was puzzling, and Rodulf knew all the speculation in the world wouldn’t bring him closer to the answer. It was a frustration, but one that would have to be dealt with at another time.
One thing was certain: Before he embarked on any of his own plans he needed to make sure he kept the Markgraf happy. What could he want with all that silver? He was already a wealthy man—and in any event, for an aristocrat wealth was measured in land, not coin. It was a mystery, but one Rodulf didn’t have the time to solve.
He stood outside the Markgraf’s office trying to decide if he could afford to stay in the city and enjoy all it had to offer, or if he should return to Leondorf immediately. He had never truly appreciated the size of the task ahead of him until that moment. The oath of faithful service was taken more seriously than he had expected. Once the ambassador left, all the administrative tasks he and his staff had taken care of would fall to Rodulf. There wasn’t long to hire and put in place people who could do that for him. The city was the best place to hire. With that thought he justified another night in the city. Some hiring during the afternoon, then a fine meal and a finer brothel in the evening.
As he moved off with a smile on his face, a man of later middle age with slicked-back grey hair approached him.
‘Graf Henselman dal Geerdorf,’ the man said, adding a curt nod to the greeting.
‘Graf’ placed dal Geerdorf one step up the social ladder from Rodulf. Even with his elevation, there was a hierarchy to conform to, and it rankled Rodulf that he was at the bottom of it. After so long dreaming about being ennobled, how quickly his thoughts turned to advancing himself within that order.
‘Baron dal Leondorf,’ Rodulf said, returning the gesture.
‘The man of the hour,’ dal Geerdorf said, his smile widening. ‘How are you settling in to your new title?’
‘It suits me very well,’ Rodulf said.
Dal Geerdorf laughed. ‘I believe it does. Shall we walk together a while?’
Rodulf nodded, still trying to work out what a man who was his social superior might want.
‘The coming days will be busy for you,’ dal Geerdorf said. ‘There’s much to do and few you can ask for advice. We were all born to our titles, lands, and the systems that make them run.’
‘I have some ideas of where to start,’ Rodulf said.
‘I’m sure you do,’ dal Geerdorf said. ‘I’ve always found self-made men to be the most useful. It’s going to be expensive th
ough.’
Rodulf raised an eyebrow. It seemed the conversation was finally reaching its purpose.
‘I realise the Markgraf retains the monopoly on the northern silver, but that leaves a great many very valuable things on the table.’
‘It does,’ Rodulf said, wanting to force dal Geerdorf to lead the conversation to wherever it was he was going with it.
Dal Geerdorf smiled and nodded. ‘You’ll quickly come to know of me, and who I am. Many would consider me to be the premier peer of the Mark—after the Markgraf, that is. I have contacts and resources that would be very useful to you in generating the income you’ll need to build your barony into a functioning part of the Mark.’
Rodulf nodded. ‘I’ve never been one to turn down offers of friendship.’
Dal Geerdorf’s smile widened. ‘That’s exactly it. There are a great many people in Ruripathia who won’t be able to look beyond your northern heritage. A friend like me can help to break down those barriers. There are few who would not wish to be counted among my friends, and that friendship brings with it many useful things, opens many otherwise closed doors.’
Rodulf nodded slowly. Dal Geerdorf likely thought he was considering the offer. He wasn’t sure whether to take the words as an act of friendship or a threat. Implicit in everything he said was the fact that doors would be slammed in his face if Rodulf didn’t do business with him. Nonetheless, it was a hard sell, and not something Rodulf would have expected from a nobleman, and certainly not from one as senior as dal Geerdorf, whose name he had heard mentioned previously. He was the second powerful man obsessed with money that Rodulf had dealt with in as many hours, and he was again curious. What was driving dal Geerdorf to extend the hand of friendship to a northern arriviste? It was interesting, and Rodulf filed it away in his head for future investigation. Who knew what he might find, or how it might be of use?
Jorundyr's Path: Wolf of the North Book 2 Page 13
