Trysmoon Book 1: Ascension (The Trysmoon Saga)

by Brian Fuller

  “Yes, your Grace. I thank you for this kindness,” Gen said, bowing his head in deference. Fenna watched as he followed a scowling Tolbrook toward a small booth near the gate where his name would be recorded and where he would be issued a wooden practice sword. The First Mother sat, face thoughtful.

  “You are certainly merciful, your Highness,” Lady Ogbith said. “Much more merciful than I could have been. Disgusting creature!”

  “How do you mark him, Cadaen?” the First Mother asked, ignoring Serena’s comment.

  “It’s hard to tell for sure, but I would guess he is a fighter. Look at the way he walks, erect with head held high. He is confident and calm and easily ignores the abuse of the crowd. Whether he is confident, apathetic, or disdainful, it is hard to say. While good posture and confidence do not a warrior make, I am sure that this is no common street beggar. Perhaps he is a deserter from the armies of Tolnor? If a peasant, he would have been pressed into service. Under normal circumstances, peasants in Tolnor are not allowed to wield the blade.”

  “That is possible,” Regent Ogbith returned. “He is young and his inexperience could have made him flee battle, but something tells me that is not the case. His clothes were his and were not the clothes of a soldier, and I wouldn’t expect a deserter to want to make himself public by coming to a tournament ground where he would be under scrutiny from some of his own countrymen. If an unskilled peasant, why come and make a fool of yourself?”

  Fenna glanced at the Tolnorians, noting their disgust at their unkempt countryman.

  The First Mother bit her lip. “While it is hard to tell with all that dirt on him, he is also too tall and too fair to be of Tolnorian peasantry. Keep your eye on him. We shall know more when we see him fight.”

  “Should he pass Ethris’s test,” Harrick said. “If he is just some fool or a coward, Ethris’s questions will show it.”

  “Speaking of Ethris, where is he? We can’t get this underway without that Magician!”

  As if the First Mother’s words had summoned him, Ethris strode through the guardhouse gate and across the tournament field. Young men parted for him and gathered their belongings as the Mage’s appearance signaled that the Trials would begin. Fenna felt uneasy around Ethris. He was old, intelligent, and always in a somber mood. Even more disturbing, the Mage was by some art completely hairless. She never found out how or why he had become that way, but she always thought there must have been some special reason for it.

  Perhaps what made Fenna feel the most discomfort were Ethris’s eyes. It was widely known that no one could lie to Ethris, whether he held the Truth Staff or not; today he held that Staff firmly in hand. Anyone who wished to enter the service of the First Mother or the Chalaine had to grasp that Staff and answer Ethris’s questions. Well did Fenna remember her turn to face the penetrating glare, the blue eyes without eyebrows and eyelashes, and answer the same two questions all the young men would answer today in front of everyone.

  Ethris’s bald pate shone in the sun, and his robe was almost impossibly white, the cynosure for the moment. He walked forward without haste, bowed to the First Mother, and then turned to face the assembled hopefuls whom Captain Tolbrook busily tried to form up into regimental lines. Nervous smiles and fidgeting broke out among the would-be apprentices. Kimdan was cool and confident, and Fenna spotted Gen standing in the back. His expression would have been appropriate for one standing alone in a room staring at a blank wall. The First Mother rose and the young soldiers went to a knee and bowed their heads.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the three nations, I welcome you to the Trials. Gathered before us are the finest fighting talents hailing from all human kingdoms. Each has come to demonstrate his skill at arms, his honor, and his wish to serve my daughter, the Chalaine, as a part of the Dark Guard. There are three rounds to the Trials, and with each round a smaller group will be chosen to move on to the next. In the end, six will be chosen and one among them selected to be their Captain.

  “Any who fail to achieve the honor of service to the Dark Guard will have the opportunity to enter the First Mother’s army, should he so wish it. There shall be no magic or outside help given to any of the candidates today. Any who receive such will be disqualified and barred from further service to the Chalaine or this kingdom. As is required, all must grasp the Truth Staff and answer the questions put to them. I am well aware that two warring nations are represented here. I will look on any petty vengeance with great displeasure. Let us begin.”

  The crowd applauded and settled in as Captain Tolbrook called names from the roll. One by one, each young man came forward and grasped the Staff with both hands. The nobles from Rhugoth raised a loud shout and applause as Kimdan came forward, grasping the rod and looking Ethris in the eye. Serena blushed at the attention lavished on her son.

  “Do you wish to serve the Chalaine for your own personal gain?” Ethris asked, voice cold and serious.

  “No,” Kimdan answered.

  Fenna smirked. Kimdan had already gained plenty of notoriety before the Trials had even started. Perhaps his heart was in the right place even when the rest of him wasn’t.

  “Are you willing to die for the Chalaine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rise and take your place.”

  Only two young men failed the test. Gen, the very last on the roll, passed. Fenna noted that he was one of the only ones besides Kimdan who was able to hold Ethris’s gaze throughout the questioning. As if reading her thoughts, Cadaen spoke.

  “Did you see, Harrick? He had no fear of Ethris at all! Either he’s as cocky and arrogant as your boy, or he’s daft! We should have Ethris ask him if he really is a serf. I think not.”

  “Indeed,” Regent Ogbith returned. “If a serf, he is unusually indifferent in the face of Mages and nobles. A bit of a mystery to spice up the event!”

  “Hush, Oggie!” Serena grated. “They are announcing the initial assignments.”

  The first round of the Trials involved pitting one warrior against another in single combat. Five groups of two fought at the same time, one in the center and four in separate corners of the field while one member of the Dark Guard supervised and evaluated each group. While Kimdan wasn’t chosen for the first matches, Gen was, and Captain Tolbrook put him and his opponent in the center of the field.

  “The Captain wishes to embarrass him,” the First Mother observed.

  “At least he’s given us a good vantage point,” Cadaen added.

  “Can you mark his opponent, Highness?” the Regent asked.

  The First Mother squinted into the morning sunlight. “I’m afraid I can’t get a good look at him.”

  “That is Volney Torunne,” Fenna offered, “son of General Torunne.”

  The First Mother turned with a smile, as did Harrick and Cadaen. “Thank you, Fenna. I should have guessed you would have a good knowledge of the young men.” The First Mother winked and Fenna blushed.

  “She’s right,” Regent Ogbith confirmed. “He has his father’s monstrous nose. A good fighter, the General. Haven’t seen him in a year or two, but his son should be a solid candidate if he’s anything like him.”

  “Smash the filthy serf a good one, Volney!” Serena commanded. Her husband rolled his eyes up into his head in annoyance.

  Fenna surveyed the crowd. All eyes save a few were focused on the match between the serf and General’s son, hoping for a few laughs to begin the day. As the Dark Guard gave them instructions, they each began to remove their shirts. The matches, Fenna learned, were always fought bare-chested so that the welts left by the dull wooden swords would stand out. When Gen removed his cloak, he had no shirt underneath. What derision there might have been at this further evidence of Gen’s poverty was quashed by the revelation of his form. Every muscle on his torso was firm and rippling. Scars, white against his heavily tanned skin, crisscrossed his chest, back, and arms. Fenna couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  “Erelinda take me!” the First Mother exclaimed. �
�Even Jaron in his prime was never that fit!!”

  “He’s a fighter, all right,” Cadaen observed, “and by the scars, one who has seen battle.”

  Regent Ogbith crinkled his brow. “A warrior, yes, but torture rather than battle gave him most of those scars, I’d wager. Old warriors wouldn’t receive half that many scars over a lifetime, if they survived that long. The dirt makes it difficult to guess his age, but he can’t be a day over eighteen. Someone tortured him, probably an Aughmerian. We’d best watch this one. It would be easy for him to take revenge.”

  As with the other groups on the field, Gen and Volney faced each other, and with a drop of the Dark Guard’s hand, began to fight. Volney strode forward confidently, striking with energy and precision. Gen blocked every stroke with apparent effort, returning with a series of strokes that at the end landed a large welt on Volney’s back. This same scene was repeated every time, Gen narrowly avoiding Volney’s swings and then swatting the young noble somewhere on the torso. When Captain Tolbrook finally called an end to the fighting, Volney had several red marks and Gen only one. Gen shook his opponent’s hand politely, though Volney’s face burned with disappointment.

  “Gen didn’t seem overly impressive,” the First Mother remarked. “Just adequate, if you ask me.”

  Fenna had to agree. Nothing about the way Gen fought was particularly interesting. Though she couldn’t say why, she hoped he would fare better to quiet the rudeness of the crowd and his competition.

  “He wasn’t trying,” Harrick said as Tolbrook began announcing the next pairings. “There is a lot more power and speed in that frame than he showed. It’s almost as if he’s not trying to draw attention to himself, though that would seem the wrong thing to do during the Trials.”

  Cadaen nodded in agreement and was about to reply when a cheer went up from the crowd and drowned out any further conversation. Fenna looked up. Tolbrook had just announced that Kimdan was to fight Terrant Brookwater, a Warlord’s son from Aughmere.

  Kimdan strode out onto the field, hands raised high, taking the center place without being asked. Terrant, a lumbering young man, followed him out and faced him. Kimdan hopped about to warm up, twisting his neck and arms to get limber. This done, he executed another bow for the crowd just before the Dark Guard’s arm fell.

  “Damned peacock!” Regent Ogbith grumbled, almost coming out of his seat. “Must get it from his mother!” Serena scowled at her husband’s remark, and the First Mother stifled a laugh.

  “Well, you must forget who you were thirty years ago, Harrick,” the First Mother said as seriously as possible. “I’ve heard many tales about a man who was loathe to turn away attention when he could get it.”

  “I was never as bad as that boy is! Tell her, Cadaen!”

  “My Lord,” Cadaen stammered, “I think I must side with the Lady.”

  “Traitor.”

  The conversation was cut short by an “ahh” of approval from the crowd. Terrant was squirming on the ground holding his crotch while Kimdan strutted around and taunted him. Fenna felt torn halfway between the elation of the crowd and a powerful feeling of disgust, a feeling perhaps enlivened by Serena clapping and giggling with pride and glee.

  Like Gen, Kimdan was marked but once during the fray, but unlike Gen, Kimdan showed no respect for his opponent, taking steps to paint him the incompetent fool at every opportunity. Each swat on the bottom, face, or groin earned raucous applause from his admirers, and as Kimdan quit the field he received a standing ovation from a good portion of those assembled.

  “Maybe he is worse than you were,” the First Mother acquiesced. “He’s going to complicate some Dark Guard’s life for a while, especially if his pride is further bloated by becoming the Captain’s apprentice.”

  Fenna sat during the balance of the long first round to rest her feet. She was a little too short to get a good view when sitting behind Cadaen, Harrick, and the First Mother, all of which were above average height. When the round was over, all three left to consult with the Dark Guard and Captain Tolbrook on who should be cut and who should proceed to the second round. Fenna left quickly, purposely forgetting about Serena’s parasol, fearing the woman might request that she attend her during the intermission. Fenna joined the onlookers as they abandoned their seats and moved slowly into the city in search of refreshment.

  The sun was full up now, wisps of light clouds stretching from horizon to horizon in the spring-blue sky. As she worked her way by the common folk that lined the railing on the opposite side of the field from the stands, Fenna found voices that described Kimdan in terms quite different from those used by the aristocracy and nobility. They weren’t words she could repeat. She heard Gen’s name more than once from high-born and commoner alike—to the high-born an offense and to commoners an oddity.

  Many of the young fighters sought refreshment in the streets as well, most surrounded by family, friends, and comrades in arms. A flock of young ladies vied for Kimdan’s attention, and Fenna felt a stab of jealousy. She desperately wanted to act above the petty flirtations of her peers, but at the same time she wanted Kimdan to notice her and pay her the same courtesy and attention he did the others; being trifled with, she decided, was better than being ignored. She wandered aimlessly for many minutes, lost in thought, trying to plan her next move to entice Kimdan to pay her the attention she was due.

  “Excuse me, Miss?” Fenna blinked and found herself staring at Gen’s filthy face.

  Chapter 16 - Ascension

  Startled, Fenna took a step backward. Gen looked dirty and smelly from a distance; up close he was doubly so. Fenna tried to keep revulsion from crossing her face but was unsure if she succeeded. The young man’s green eyes seemed to absorb every detail, but his mud-besmeared face betrayed nothing of what he might have thought or felt.

  “I am sorry to impose, Miss,” he said with a bow, apparently guessing her station. “I have no money with which I might purchase anything to drink, and I do not know where I might find fresh water. If you could direct me toward either, I would be most obliged.”

  His voice was deep and beautiful with a hint of the country in it.

  “You are fair spoken for a serf, Gen.”

  “Being a serf does not always make one a word-mangling idiot,” Gen replied evenly. “But it usually does mean that one is dirty.”

  Fenna couldn’t tell if this was an attempt at humor or not. “Forgive me,” she stammered. “Come, let me buy you some cider.”

  Fenna led Gen along a narrow street that led past Kimdan and his throng. Fenna turned her head away and tried to sneak by without attracting attention, but the observant Kimdan noticed her.

  “Where are you taking that, Fenna?” he jeered. “You always did have a soft spot for strays!”

  Fenna blushed and walked faster, turning to see if Gen would do or say something. Gen appeared uninterested in anything Kimdan said, and if anything he walked more slowly.

  “Hey, serf!” Kimdan taunted. “You should leave! You disgrace her Highness! I hope I get the chance to whack some of that dirt off you!”

  Fenna feared a fight would break out, but Gen continued casually by as if Kimdan didn’t even exist, paying attention to nothing in particular. Hurrying forward, Fenna reached a small hide-covered booth where a thin man filled mugs from a row of barrels behind him. Fenna wanted to run, to get away from Kimdan, Gen, and everyone else. Tossing a penny on the table, she grabbed a mug and turned to find Gen behind her, observing her expressionlessly. His gaze made her drop her eyes.

  “Here,” she said, thrusting the mug out like a dagger. Gen took it gently.

  “I am sorry that I proved an embarrassment, Miss Fenna.”

  “How did you know my name?” she asked.

  “Kimdan said it.”

  “Oh, right,” Fenna replied, color rising in her cheeks. “Yes. I am Miss Fenna Fairedale, daughter of the Regent and Lady Fairedale.”

  “Well met,” he greeted her, bowing again. “I can see that K
imdan’s attention is important to you.” He took another drink. “I promise there was a time when I was not this unkempt.” Fenna met Gen’s gaze again. There was something honest about it.

  She sighed. “It is I who should be ashamed. My mistress would disapprove of my actions and my feelings. We are all taught that we should not shun the company of the poor, even if it means being ridiculed. She lives that teaching well. Of course, no one would dare ridicule her.”

  Gen drank deeply and asked the man to refill his mug with water. “Who is your mistress?”

  “The Chalaine.”

  Gen retrieved the mug from the merchant and drank quietly for a few moments.

  “She is indeed kind,” he said, “as are you. I thank you and hope I can repay you someday. But tell me, what is it about Kimdan that attracts you?”

  Fenna was surprised at the forwardness of the question and found it difficult to answer. “I don’t know. He’s fair to look upon, skilled at arms, and a son of a powerful man.” The answer seemed weak, and she realized how little she knew Kimdan. Gen nodded his head as if he understood anyway.

  “I wish you luck, then. I just hope he doesn’t treat you as shamefully as he did Terrant, should you find your way into his company. I shall make my way back, now. Again, I thank you. Do you wish to have a head start? I’ll stay behind until you are well on your way.”

  “No. No, thank you. I must return as well and it should be with you. You are, after all, a guest in our kingdom and vying for a position of great honor.”

  Fenna found talking to Gen an easy thing despite his apparent lack of emotion. Maybe it was because of it. “It is true that Kimdan thinks too much of himself. Even his father, Regent Ogbith, says so. Unfortunately, there is no one on the field today that will teach him a lesser vision of himself. His father seems confident that the first year as an apprentice to the Dark Guard will cure his arrogance.”