Orphan: Book One: Chronicles of the Fall

by Lee Ramsay

  Early summer in Dorishad possessed a rhythm that fanned Tristan’s discontent, made all the more unbearable as his majority neared. His peers departed for the Summer Festival – a smaller celebration than the ones in spring and autumn – while he remained forbidden to step beyond the hamlet’s wall.

  They were not the only ones to abandon the hamlet, however. Anthoun had departed on one of his mysterious travels a month earlier, assigning Tristan a stack of books that bored him to sleep. Dougan was absent, conducting his yearly visit to the neighboring hamlets, homesteads, woodsmen’s camps, and woodland farms south of Dorishad. Trappers and hunters returned from their spring hunts loaded with pelts and deer hide, soon to depart for Dresden Township to arrange trades before autumn’s Harvest Festival.

  Other than Tristan, who doubted he could have received permission even if Anthoun had been present to ask, only Jayna remained behind.

  With nothing better to do than loiter, he spent his days watching the young woman trail her mother to the tailor’s building or labor under Karilen’s tutelage in the weavers’ shops. She sat under a tree near the stream at other times, her attention fixed on the medicinal recipes and treatments for injuries written on the pages of her grandmother’s book of simples. He was aware when she visited the bathhouse. Though Jakkan, Mikken, Beren, and Ryjan were in Dresden Township, he could not muster the courage to try one of the knotholes.

  He vaguely remembered the girl intervening in the beating he had received, though he had been too dazed to comprehend what she said. Jakkan’s smug looks in the weeks after filled him with suspicion. Like any young man with a bruised ego to match his battered body, he could not bring himself to speak with her about it. The thought of her bedding the blacksmith’s son to stop the beating, or spying her nakedness in the bathhouse with that thought in mind, drove him mad.

  Jakkan had spoken the truth. Tristan had nothing to offer that the other youth did not already possess in greater quantities.

  Stewing over his lot and avoiding Jayna, who always seemed to either be where he was or arriving not long after him, he wandered Dorishad’s waist-high wall as yet another summer thunderstorm boomed in the distance. Trees rustled as the impending storm’s first breezes stirred. He climbed onto the stones forming the hamlet’s simple gate and let his legs dangle above the road’s surface. It was as close as he dared test the limits of his freedom, as he technically remained within Dorishad’s confines.

  He stared the mile southward to where the stones ended at the forest’s green wall and followed the road as far as his eyes could as it disappeared in the sylvan shadows. From maps in Anthoun’s library, he knew the road forked several times; southerly turns eventually led to the ocean. Books filled with Dougan’s beloved adventure stories often centered on the sea, and his active mind tried to picture the reality. He imagined the approaching storm’s rush of wind was the sound of the sea on the sand and that the thunder’s dull booms were breakers smashing against a rocky coast. When he closed his eyes, he fancied the wood smoke was brine.

  Dresden Township can wait, he decided. The first thing he would do upon reaching his majority would be to pack a bag and head south. Thought of the ocean’s vastness laying before him gave him a thrill of excitement. He was not naïve enough to believe that his imagination could do the sea justice.

  What his fantasy did not include were the soft clops of approaching hoofs from the north. He did not think much of it. Messengers bearing letters for Anthoun often came to Dorishad at this time of year. As a child, he often wondered from whence they came and what they had seen. He was still curious, but understood they were nothing more than tired men riding worn-out horses on a set route through the countryside. Most traveled little more than fifty miles in any direction from their homes.

  “You there!” a man’s voice called out. Tristan tried to ignore the man and sink back into his daydream. “I said you there! Boy! Is this Dorishad?”

  The question softened Tristan’s irritation, as anyone familiar with the region knew the hamlet. The horse was a lean, black courser with a long mane and fetlocks. From bridle and reins to the saddle, the tack was high-quality leather beneath a thin layer of dust. A fine-woven saddle blanket patterned in black, crimson, and gold matched the rider’s clothing. Built into the saddle next to the man’s left knee was a leather scabbard, the wire-wrapped hilt of a sword gleaming in the sunlight.

  Tristan jumped down from the wall and stepped into the road’s center. He resisted the urge to glance at the wall as his heart raced. Though he had no idea where Anthoun had gone, he half expected the old man to appear abruptly. “It is, sir.”

  Gloved hands gripping the horse’s reins, the messenger swung down from his saddle. Fixed to his breast over his heart was an elaborate broach, a golden disk with an onyx eagle’s head in profile. “Excellent. I am here to see the sage, Anthoun, on behalf of Duke Riand. Take me to him.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Anthoun is not here. He hasn’t been for several weeks now. He often travels late in the spring or early in the summer, but usually not for long. He should be home in a few days.”

  “Damn.”

  Tristan’s eyes lingered on the man’s brooch. “You are a courier for Duke Riand?”

  “I am.”

  “I am Anthoun’s ward son. I’d be happy to take the message and deliver it when he returns,” he said, bobbing a slight bow before gesturing toward Dorishad’s gate. “I can see you quartered until then if you prefer.”

  The courier narrowed his eyes, raking the young man from the dusty boots to the top of his auburn head. “I suppose you must Travis, or Trevor, with that hair.”

  “Tristan. You’ve heard of me, sir?”

  “Indeed. Redheads aren’t rare in Ravvos, but neither are they common. It was no small news when Anthoun took in an orphan whelp with that shade.” He frowned as Tristan winced at the remark. “I meant no insult. My wife is an orphan herself. I had the sense to marry her despite that. Uh, that is to say—"

  The youth waved the comment aside. “No offense taken.”

  “I don’t have days to wait, and neither do you. Duke Rothan Riand and a company of retainers, including the Earl of Ressent, will arrive in a fortnight. It would behoove you to ensure they are received in the grandest state you can manage.” The courier turned to his saddle and withdrew a long wooden box of curly maple from his saddlebag. The golden clasp on the dark and light patterned wood glittered as he handed it over. “There is a letter in there from the duke himself to your master. You would be ill-advised to break the seal if you value the skin on your back. If you value your head, you’ll see it delivered to Anthoun directly on his return. Do you understand?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Smart boy.”

  The courier slipped his foot into the stirrup and swung into the saddle, then turned his mount’s head north with a click of his tongue. Tristan loitered until he vanished into the green tunnel north of Dorishad, then dropped his eyes to the box in his hands. His thumb found the catch, and the wooden cover opened. A rolled scroll lay on crimson velvet, the off-white parchment bound in a gold ribbon. A massive dollop of black wax sealed the letter, impressed with a coat of arms.

  Something rebellious surged within him as he looked at the letter, but he smothered it by snapping the hinged top closed. He blew a breath through pursed lips and crossed through the wall’s opening to make his way to the manor house.

  “Wipe your boots,” Karilen said as he ducked through the kitchen doorway, his shadow obscuring the sunlight pouring through the open door. Tristan blinked to speed his eyes’ adjustment to the gloom, making out her plump shape at the long counter beside the pantry as she cut vegetables. “You can wash your hands, too, and help with your dinner. They say it’s a woman’s place to do the cooking, but I don’t hold with that.”

  She dropped the vegetables into the soup pot gurgling on the cookstove and gave him a curious glance as he set the box on the table. “What’s that?”
r />   “A message from a courier.”

  “A finer delivery than most.” She picked up a towel and wiped her hands, eyes narrowed with suspicion. “The rider should have brought that straight to the house. Were you out lurking by the wall again?”

  “Yes,” Tristan said without hesitation, his shoulders squaring.

  “Don’t you puff up at me. You’ll be off soon enough. Don’t be torturing yourself with things that can’t be rushed,” Karilen said with a click of her tongue. She tossed the towel on the table and fiddled with the case’s catch. The box’s hinges turned, and she squinted at the impression on the wax as she lifted the scroll from its cushion. “Now, I wonder who sent this. I can’t make out—”

  “Duke Riand. The courier wore the duke’s livery and bore a crested badge.”

  “What could that puffed-up popinjay want from Anthoun? He doesn’t much like your ward father.”

  “Whatever it is, we’ll find out in a fortnight. The courier said the duke will soon be on his way.”

  Karilen blinked as though trying to comprehend his words. She put the rolled letter back in its case, dropped it into an apron pocket, and removed the simmering pot from the cookstove’s top. “Dinner is going to have to wait, my lad. You have orders to give.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The matron took him by the elbow and guided him toward the door. “You’re Anthoun’s ward son; one day, you will be giving all the orders as Dorishad’s master. Best to start learning how, and now’s a good time to do so. Don’t worry; I’ll tell you what needs to be said.”

  “They won’t listen to me.”

  Karilen lifted her eyebrows with a knowing smirk. “Oh, they will – or I’ll start smacking heads.”

  TRISTAN’S FIRST EXPERIENCE of the power he might hold as master of Dorishad was underwhelming. His voice broke in a way it had not done in more than a year, which forced him to clear his throat. Flushed with uncertainty, he repeated the words Karilen told him to speak. They looked at the older woman for confirmation; when she gave a curt nod, they followed his instructions. A horse was saddled, and a rider sent to Dresden Township to collect every Dorishad man and woman he could find.

  He grew more confident and needed less input from Karilen on the appropriate orders to give as the day went on, though she stayed by his side to lend authority to his instructions – and to tell him what he needed to know. In most cases, the orders he gave were accepted with grace; in others, with reluctant grumbles.

  Under Tristan’s eye, with Karilen a quiet but solid presence at his elbow, a cow was selected for butchering and marked with a blaze of whitewash across its rump so Dougan could approve the choice when he returned from his travels. Several geese were chosen for their plumpness and locked in cages to await the butcher’s knife. Fine porcelain tableware and silver utensils were selected from several collections locked away in trunks in the manor’s cellar. A whisky cask was selected from the distillery, as were several bottles of fermented apple cider from the cider press and ale kegs from the brewery.

  He heaved a tired sigh as he sat down to a cold dinner. The kitchen door stood open, the evening gloaming stirring with a gentle breeze that carried the sounds of activity from around the hamlet. A dull ache stabbed through his head as Karilen asked questions for which he had no answers, prompting him to prop his elbows on the table and massage his temples with his fingertips. “I don’t care which linens should be used. What does it matter?”

  Karilen froze with a spoonful of cold stew halfway to her lips, then set it back in her bowl. “What does it matter? What do you mean, what does it matter?”

  “They’re bed linens. It’s summer, and it’s hot. Give them light linen sheets and hang curtains around the beds. What do they want from us?”

  “Duke Rothan Riand is coming to Dorishad,” she said with exaggerated patience. “Is he bringing his wife? Will his brothers be accompanying him? What retainers will be in his train?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Didn’t think to ask, did you?”

  The irritation building within him finally slipped its leash. He scooped up the bowl of cold stew and threw it into the hearth. Ceramic shattered, and the fire hissed from contact with broth, meat, and vegetables. “How in all hells would I know any of that?”

  “Did it ever occur to you to ask?” Karilen snapped back, her dark skin reddening as she levered herself to her feet.

  “Why should it? When was the last time anyone but a regular courier came here? Have we ever had anyone of any importance come? I don’t know. I’m assuming they’ll want silk or satin or something. Do we even have that? Again, I don’t know.” His skin grew hotter with each sentence, and his pulse hammered in his temples. He stood fast enough to send his chair barking across the tiles. “What I do know is we have linen and wool, and a lot of each. I don’t fucking care what they sleep on – they can’t expect something we don’t have!”

  Karilen surged forward with surprising speed, her hand flying across Tristan’s cheek with a resounding crack. She wagged her finger at him with little room to spare between the nail and the tip of his nose. “Mind your language. You are Anthoun’s son—"

  “Ward son.”

  “Does that matter?”

  He flung his hand toward the door and the rest of the hamlet beyond. “It matters to them. You saw how they looked at me today. They’d have laughed me off if you hadn’t been at my side.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “Don’t I?” He swallowed a mouthful of lukewarm water and slammed the wooden cup back to the tabletop. He brushed past her on his way to the door. “If they don’t think anything of me, what then of these noblemen? What are they going to see? A sage’s ward, or a bastard orphan taken in by a pair of buggering sodomites?”

  “Tristan!” Karilen cried in shock, but he was already fleeing across the commons and over the bridge crossing the stream. He fled toward the maple groves in the fading light. For once, he was grateful that his freakish height compared to the other Ravvosi gave him long legs and a ground-eating stride.

  He soon reached the waist-high wall separating the maples from the wild forest and drew deep, calming breaths as he leaned against the stones. He was unsure who he was angrier at – himself for not having knowledge he apparently should, Karilen for pointing out the lack, or Anthoun for teaching him about farming and history rather than what was—

  He paused in his silent rant against Anthoun’s selective instruction, realizing he had been about to call linens and protocols practical next to learning about farming. No one of note ever came to Dorishad, which rendered such knowledge pointless.

  He sank to the dirt with his back pressed against the wall and dug his hands in his hair. If he was angry with anyone, he decided, it was his unknown parents. He never forgot his orphan status – how could he, compared to the shorter, darker Ravvosi? – but rarely thought about how little he knew of his circumstances.

  “Born in a hut, my mother dead with me at her breast,” he said as he closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall. “Even had she lived, I wouldn’t know any of what I needed today. Not that I would have needed it there.”

  Or would I? All Anthoun said was that he discovered as an infant, lying beside my dead mother.

  His temper cooled enough to feel embarrassed for yelling at Karilen, but not enough to return and face her. Night deepened, and crickets came to life in the darkness. Any moment someone would come and call him home. It was not as if his most common haunts were unknown.

  He could not decide if he should be angry, sad, or unsurprised when he realized no one was coming.

  TRISTAN’S PEERS RETURNED from Dresden Township early in the afternoon two days later. Laughing when they arrived, the sullen looks they gave him made it clear they resented having the summons interrupt their fun. He returned the glower and barely saw Jayna as he brushed past her, storming away from the sound of laughter that resumed with his departure.

 
; Dougan returned not long after, riding in on a lathered horse with his hat in his hand and summer sunlight shining on the sweaty pate. No sooner had he dismounted than Karilen bustled out the kitchen door and spoke with him in rushed, quiet tones. Some perversity in Tristain’s character lightened his mood as he watched from the barn’s shadows; the veteran’s expression darkened the longer she spoke.

  When the matronly woman stopped speaking, the veteran’s demeanor changed. His barked orders sent people scrambling in a way that they had not considered doing for Tristan. Within moments, he cornered the gaggle of young men and women loitering nearby, who gaped as they were overwhelmed by the long list of tasks he ordered. Most did as he instructed; a few, however, gave the older man the same sullen looks they had given Tristan.

  “Have fun with that,” Jakkan said as he turned away with a dismissive snort.

  Dougan grabbed the blacksmith’s son by the shoulder, his already frowning face darkening with a scowl. “Where in all hells do you think you’re going? I told you to—”

  Unwisely, Jakkan spun and swung a roundhouse punch at the older man’s head. Tristan saw the blow coming from clear across the commons and winced as the veteran evaded the blow. A straight punch met the burly youth’s nose with an audible crack, followed by a grunting thud as Dougan guided Jakkan’s stomach into his knee with a hand on the shoulder. Dust rose as youth groaned and crashed to the ground.