by Brian Fuller
“Is she here yet, Thep?” A little girl, dirty beyond description, poked her head out of a littered alley.
“Almost, Halwen. Get the others.”
“What’s wrong with her?” Gen asked.
“She has fits. Her Pureman said they were caused by. . .”
“Mikkik,” Gen finished for him. After the first war ended and Mikkik slunk away into hiding, his terror still ran through town and city, scores upon scores of people killed by those who wrongly supposed Mikkik to be the author of all irregularities of body and mind.
Gen turned to his young companion. “How do you know she is coming?”
Thepeth shrugged. “I just do. You’d best get away from us,” the boy warned him as a sizable group of children emerged from alley, building, and ruin. “The Dark Guard don’t take kindly to anyone being close to the Chalaine except the children. I imagine they would be even madder to see you. You really can’t feel her coming?”
“No. Thank you for the warning, Thepeth.”
Gen secreted himself inside a half-destroyed house near where the children gathered together. It had a window facing the street and had enough of a roof to be dark, providing a perfect place to watch and not be seen. He leaned against the wall and looked out. Pitiful men and women gathered around the gate, standing away from it and not in the attitude of attack. As Thepeth said, the crowd did not surge forward when the gates swung open. A heavily fortified carriage, black in color and etched with a silver rose, rumbled slowly through the gates. Four strong horses, as black as the carriage, pulled the heavy load, and a formidable column of fifty soldiers marched through the gates with it.
Nearest the carriage were the unmistakable Dark Guard, intimidating in their black uniforms, swords drawn. When Thepeth mentioned that no one fought when the Chalaine came, Gen had thought it out of respect for the Chalaine. He revised that conclusion. They didn’t fight because a couple of the Chalaine’s visits had taught them that any aggression near the First Daughter resulted in quick death.
The Chalaine’s guards stared menacingly at everyone and did a thorough check of the area before forming a wide perimeter and opening the door of the carriage. The first to emerge was a handsome young man, also uniformed as a Dark Guard. Gen recognized him from the Shadan’s picture of him—Dason Kildan. He extended his hand, and Gen saw the Chalaine for the first time as she stepped down into the street. She was tall for a woman, nearly as tall as the guard who helped her from the carriage. Everything about her appearance lay hidden behind her pure white cowl, veil, and robe that rippled in the breeze, shining in contrast with the dull browns and grays all around her. Several of the children approached her, and she stooped to hug them all.
Gen could just make out her voice as she asked the names of the children she did not already know and talked with them. Musical. By her mannerisms, Gen could tell that she felt a little afraid or uncomfortable, but she loved the children enough to put aside her own inconvenience. Soldiers lifted food from the carriage, and the Chalaine distributed the bread, apples, and cheese among her little charges while the adults watched enviously. Thepeth sat near her, and, from time to time, Gen could feel the boy’s gaze upon him.
Gen couldn’t help but think of the children he knew in Tell on the morning of Shadan Khairn’s invasion. Fathers and mothers had clung to them to comfort them in their fear and soothe them with whispers that all would be well. The Chalaine did much the same, sitting on the ground and taking each child onto her lap and into her arms, giving each a daisy from a basket brought forth from the carriage. With a hug and something whispered in the ear, she went from one to the next, often pressing the veil to her eyes to dry them.
To spend a moment with every child took the better part of two hours, and by the time she finished, she needed Dason’s help to stand. Dirty hands and faces had stained her dress, and, despite a quick attempt to shake and swat away the dirt, she would leave the Damned Quarter with a dress dyed brown in its dust. She didn’t seem to mind, however, and she hugged them again, singing a little song to them as they filed past one by one. Before ascending into her carriage, she waved and promised to return soon.
The driver worked to turn the unwieldy carriage about in the cramped street as the soldiers formed up by the carriage and distributed what remained of the food to the most unfortunate, protecting them as long as they could from those who would steal it. The Chalaine opened a window in the door of the carriage and waved to the children as she left, the gates of the Damned Quarter swinging open and closing quickly once she was through.
Gen emerged from his hiding place and out into the street. Thepeth approached, twirling his daisy in his hand.
“You see now why I didn’t want you to kill her. Isn’t she wonderful?”
“She is everything I imagined. I doubt you could understand what her condescension says about her. I never wanted to kill her, though, Thepeth. I want to do quite the opposite, actually.”
“You want to be a Dark Guard?”
“Yes, I do.”
“So do I, mister. But she told me that I wouldn’t get to because she would be the last Chalaine. After tomorrow, there will never be another Trials. Once Eldaloth returns, they won’t need the Dark Guard anymore.”
Every boy on any shard of note knew of the Trials, a great contest of warriors where a few were selected to apprentice to the Dark Guard. He, Gant, and the other local boys had staged many a fake Trials in Tell’s town square, though in play everyone won the honor of entering the Dark Guard to avoid real fighting.
“They’re holding the Trials tomorrow?”
“That’s what she said.”
Gen thanked Thepeth and walked away. This was a sign, a chance to put his training to the use it was intended. He needed to get a good look at the walls before the sun went down.
Chapter 15 - The Trials
Miss Fenna Fairedale, handmaiden to the Chalaine, undid her bonnet, leaning around the First Mother to gain a better vantage point. The First Mother, too, surveyed the tournament field where young men by the dozens awaited their opportunity to demonstrate their skill at arms in hopes of earning an apprenticeship with the prestigious Dark Guard, the formidable protectors of the Chalaine.
Nearly all assembled were the sons of Rhugothian aristocracy, Tolnorian nobles, and Aughmerian Warlords. Others, Fenna thought, must be the sons of men in military ranks since she couldn’t recall them attending court the day before. Most of the hopefuls clumped together with fighters from their own nations, attempting levity to dispel nervousness. Some few stood alone in deep concentration, stretching muscles and reviewing proper technique.
As Fenna watched, the morning sun finally crested some of the taller buildings that surrounded the field, promising a pleasant, warm day as the sweltering months of summer proper were at least a month off. The tournament area was a large, circular field covered with close-cropped grass. The nobles and the rich sat on covered wooden benches that formed a semi-circle around the field. A guardhouse stood directly opposite the seating, and a low wooden fence stretched away from either side of it. Along this fence the commoners and peasants gathered to watch the Trials, but others had climbed onto the roofs of nearby buildings for a better view—though more uncomfortable and distant.
As one of the Chalaine’s handmaidens and as a daughter of a Regent, Fenna had the right to sit with the members of her class on the benches, but a chance encounter and invitation from the First Mother afforded her the privilege of sitting in “the Box,” an area for high aristocracy and dignitaries. Instead of benches there were padded seats, and the First Mother and her advisers sat on the front row, Fenna one row behind. Fenna was supposed to be attending the Chalaine this morning, but she had managed to convince Eldwena to switch shifts with her so she could come and watch. It was a difficult persuasion. Despite the fact that Eldwena was married and had children, she still liked to ogle the young men.
The First Mother turned, and, as she often did, asked about the Chalai
ne’s well-being with several pointed questions. Fenna loved the First Mother as she did her own mother, though her Grace intimidated Fenna more than even her own father. Like the Chalaine, Mirelle possessed a beauty beyond compare, but the First Mother of Rhugoth had a more forceful personality, a penchant for organization, and an air of command that her daughter lacked or held in a lesser degree. The Chalaine, Fenna knew, would not need those qualities as her mother did; she would not rule a nation but would stand in deference to the Ha’Ulrich in all things.
After inquiring after her daughter, the First Mother turned her attention to greeting the regents and nobles as they arrived, many to watch their sons. Due to the war between Tolnor and Aughmere, fewer than usual from those nations made the trip, though more young men than ever entered the contest, Rhugoth supplying the surplus.
Of all nations, Tolnor was the least represented. Fenna noticed Gerand Kildan, son of Duke Tern Kildan, the Lord Protector of Tolnor, huddled with seven other Tolnorians who had made the journey at some expense to the war effort and at some peril. The Aughmerian entries taunted them at every opportunity, but Gerand kept his fellow fighters focused. He was handsome like his brother, Dason, sporting long dark hair and a sliver of a goatee on his chin.
The Trials were held once every ten years in Rhugoth, and the event became a holiday for Rhugothians, the city of Mikmir offering a wide variety of entertainments for those making the trek from other shards. These Trials, however, held more import than any before. While the Chalaines had lived and died in peace for hundreds of years, the current one was the Chalaine, the one the Ilch would war against to destroy the God reincarnate that the Blessed One would father within her. Those chosen to protect her would need to be special and skilled young men, indeed.
The First Mother knew this too, though as for that, she fretted excessively over her daughter and would want the best men to protect her, whatever the peace or peril. To this end, she brought her two most trusted advisers, Regent Harrick Ogbith, High Protector of Mikmir, and Cadaen, her longtime bodyguard, to counsel her. Both men were old soldiers and excited to see the crop of young men who wanted to follow them into their honorable profession. They judged the young men like farmers judged livestock at a fair, seeing things—hidden strengths and concealed flaws—that most did not notice. The First Mother would seek their guidance when the time came to choose, and she sat between them, asking them questions about the skills and character of those assembled.
Fenna noticed Regent Ogbith’s wife, Serena, approaching the seat next to her husband. While Fenna liked the Regent a great deal, his wife irritated her. Serena assumed the unofficial position of guardian of all matters of propriety—except where they concerned herself. With a shrill voice that penetrated even the noise of the bustling venue, and with unrelenting fastidiousness, she commented without reservation about everyone and everything, uncaring or unaware of the offense that poured from her mouth. The only impropriety Serena would admit to was that she called her husband “Oggie.” Regent Ogbith cared little for propriety, though he, ironically, seemed to care for the would-be embodiment of it, smiling at his wife affectionately as she approached.
Fenna shrunk back into her chair, hoping not to attract Serena’s notice. With parasol in hand, Serena genuflected perfectly to the First Mother and begged her permission to sit, which she granted with a polite smile.
“Quite the assembly of handsome young men,” Serena said haughtily, “except that gaggle of slumping Tolnorians. The climate there must truly be harsh to impart such a weathered complexion. I should never hope to go there.” Seeing that no one replied anything, she handed her parasol back to Fenna without looking. “Do take care of this and be useful, dear. You are afforded a great privilege to be so near the First Mother, even if you are a handmaiden to the Chalaine. Oh look, Oggie! There is Kimdan. I do hope he sees me here and behaves himself.”
Regent Ogbith’s son, Kimdan, was among the hopefuls, and he stood apart from everyone, practicing his sword forms with impressive fluidity and skill. Kimdan was blond, tan, and gorgeous, and Fenna knew many noble daughters in the stands had attended for the mere pleasure of cheering him on and gaining his attention and favor. Fenna fancied herself above all such machinations; she had loved Kimdan since first seeing him at court almost three years before. He was strong, handsome, and smart, and Fenna felt the attraction she imagined most women must feel when near him. Unfortunately, he had done nothing but ignore Fenna in the years since the First Mother invited her to court to become her daughter’s handmaiden.
Kimdan was well aware that he pulled the heartstrings of a good portion of Rhugoth’s young noblewomen, and his bloated self-confidence often led to an arrogance Fenna disliked. She knew the Trials wouldn’t help Kimdan lessen his opinion of himself. Kimdan Ogbith, trained personally by the Lord Protector of Mikmir, was the best sword fighter of any of the young men present. Today was the day Kimdan would get to beat on his peers, play to the crowd, and drive the ladies wild. He had already removed his shirt and collected several sashes from his swooning admirers. A few of the other young men had a sash or two, but the majority had none due to Kimdan’s excess. Fenna withheld her own, hoping Kimdan didn’t think she would lower herself to such disgusting posturing.
“Well, Harrick,” the First Mother remarked, “your son Kimdan is in excellent form. Does he realize that if he wins this he cannot become the Lord Protector of Mikmir in his father’s stead?”
“He knows it, Highness,” the Regent replied, “though he hasn’t the temperament for it. He may one day, but he thinks a bit too highly of himself, I fear, to accept the counsel of others as he ought. My younger son Illin, while not as much the warrior in spirit, is twice the statesman.”
The First Mother nodded her head in agreement.
“Illin is such a bore,” Serena commented offhandedly. “Married a woman without so much as a spark of liveliness. A woman need be controlled, but not half-dead, for Eldaloth’s sake!”
“I think a year of training with the Dark Guard will give Kimdan a new perspective on himself,” Cadaen interjected before Serena could go on. “My first year with the Dark Guard was the hardest of my life.”
Regent Ogbith chuckled. “I have only heard stories, and I am content not to know the truth,” he replied. “I fear Serena here would remove Kimdan from the Trials if even half the stories I’ve heard are true.”
Fenna had heard the stories, too. Going days without food and sleep. Being tortured to learn to resist torture. Forced marches in the winter. Spending weeks blindfolded while learning to defend against unseen attackers. There were rumors that some of the apprentices to the Dark Guard died during the training, and some said that of the six selected during the Trials, only three were expected to actually graduate to the status of Dark Guard.
Studying Kimdan, Fenna felt conflicting emotions. It would be good for his Dark Guard masters to teach him a little humility, but she hoped that his training wouldn’t permanently damage him. It would be a travesty the young ladies of Rhugoth would simply not stand for.
A commotion on the field tore Fenna’s eyes away from the Regent’s son. Silence fell over the crowd as two of the castle guard escorted someone toward the Box where the First Mother presided over the contest. The young man gripped by the soldiers’ strong hands wore rags and looked like a beggar straight from the Damned Quarter. With a mud-stained hand he clutched a dark cloak rife with gaping holes. Brown pants were ripped up to the knees, and he didn’t even have shoes. As Fenna considered the dirt-caked face and rumpled hair, she couldn’t help but feel a stab of pity. Serena gasped and covered her mouth with her pale hand.
Others of the aristocracy and nobility took similar offense at the beggar, perceiving his presence as an affront to the dignity of the field. Kimdan stopped working his forms to watch, a wide grin splitting his face.
“You cannot beg your way into the Chalaine’s service, boy!” Kimdan crowed. Many laughed at the jest, but his father and the Fi
rst Mother frowned in disapproval of the comment. Fenna wasn’t sure why the guards had chosen to parade the ragamuffin around in front of the finely appointed assembly, but he didn’t struggle and his face seemed calm despite the jeering and mockery. The First Mother stood as the guards approached and the crowd fell silent. Captain Tolbrook of the Dark Guard approached the First Mother.
“Captain!” the First Mother said firmly, “what is the meaning of this?” The young man looked at Tolbrook and waited patiently.
“Forgive this, Milady. Say the word and I shall expel him forthwith.”
“Yes, expel him!” Serena cackled, still covering her mouth. “I can smell him from here! Augh!”
“He demanded he be given a chance at the Trials,” the Captain continued. “I tried to turn him away, filthy as he was, but he would not be denied.”
The First Mother’s brow wrinkled and she fixed her gaze on the young man. “Speak, boy. Do you wish to submit your name upon the roll for the Trials?”
“I do.” The voice was strong, deep, and clear. Fenna noted his lack of nervousness.
“Do you know anything of the sword?”
“Yes, your Highness.” The First Mother’s eyes tightened with skepticism as she tried to discern if he were lying. After a moment of silence, she decided.
“Put his name upon the roll, Captain Tolbrook.”
“I must protest!” the Captain exclaimed. “His presence dishonors the assembly! He didn’t even have the respect to bathe before coming here!”
“Enter his name, Captain. The law says that any man may enter the Trials, no matter what his station—or his cleanliness. What is your name, rank, and nationality, young man?”
“My name is Gen, and I am a serf from Tolnor.”
More grumbling from the crowd erupted and the First Mother silenced them with a wave of her hand. “Very well, then. Captain, furnish him with a sword. Gen, I trust I have not made a mistake. The Trials are a very serious matter, doubly so in these times. If you are honorable today, I will see to it that you get a bath and a warm meal, whether you are chosen or not. Understood?”
