Orphan: Book One: Chronicles of the Fall

by Lee Ramsay

  The stranger favored him with a lopsided smirk. “Well, there’s at least part of the truth. Care to try again?”

  The youth studied the man sullenly. While his graying hair and beard were unkempt and disreputable, his travel-stained clothing was well-made. Though dirty, his tailored linen shirt and close-fitting jerkin were superior to the fabric Karilen produced, and she was a master weaver. Distressed from usage and lined with fleece, the stranger’s leather coat fell above the knee; the sleeves were turned back to the middle of the forearm and held in place by silver buttons. Well-made, thick-soled boots rose to the knee, with brown woolen britches tucked into the upper.

  It was the scabbard of the man’s sword, though, which caused Tristan’s eyes to widen. Made from no less than three different leathers dyed black, brown, and green, a complex pattern of tooled vines decorated the sheath from locket to chape. The brass locket bore a crest even someone as inattentive to the lessons on politics as he could not fail to recognize.

  “What in all hells are you doing?” the stranger asked as the youth dropped to his knees and bowed his head.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace. I did not know you on sight.”

  “What the bloody fuck are you talking about, boy?”

  “Your family crest, Your Grace. Your clothes and sword could belong to anyone, but the crowned unicorn on your scabbard is not something easily purchased.” Tristan licked his dry lips and slanted his eyes upward. Leather creaked and buckles jingled as the stranger shifted his weapon’s hanger to peer at the sigil. “Only one family bears that crest – House Ravvos.”

  “I’ll be damned. A sharp-eyed one, aren’t you?” The man snorted, then lifted Tristan to his feet with a grip on the arm. “Enough of that kneeling, boy; I’m not my father, the high king. Unlike my elder brothers, the last thing I want is someone bowing and scraping to me in the middle of the woods. Now then, what’s your name?”

  “Tr-Travis, Your Grace.”

  “You lie worse than an excited virgin in a brothel.” The man gave Tristan a patient look, then turned toward the meat roasting over the fire. “If we’re standing on formality, which I would prefer we didn’t, it’s ‘your highness.’ Since you seem to have an idea of who I am, you must realize lying to me is unwise. Can we dispense with the crap and try again?”

  “Tristan.”

  “Tristan what?”

  “Just Tristan, Your Highness.”

  “Let’s leave the titles be – you’re not very good at saying them, and there’s no need for them out here,” the man said as he removed the spit from the fire. He frowned at Groush when the Hillffolk rumbled a protest. Tearing a leg from the carcass, which Tristan guessed was a hare, the man gave the spit back to Groush and handed the sizzling meat to the youth. “Here, eat this. You recognized my House’s sigil; do you know the high king’s name?”

  Tristan paused as he tore a strip of meat from the bone. His mouth watered as the sizzling juices scalded his fingers, but he dared not eat while being spoken to. “Mathonis of House Ravvos.”

  “You can talk around a mouthful of food, so eat. Know you of his sons?”

  The youth slipped the meat into his mouth and groaned with pleasure at the heat and the rich flavor as he chewed. “Prince Rathonis is eldest and heir to the throne. Next is Braestis, a Cardinal of Vastor; he entered the clergy as the second son and ascends if the heir son cannot. That would make you Prince Barrtien, then? Lord Commander of the Royal Army?”

  Bitterness washed over the man’s smile. “That would make sense, I suppose, until you asked yourself why the Lord Commander of the Royal Army is wandering the forest with a Hillffolk as his sole companion.”

  “If you’re not Prince Barrtien, who are you?”

  “Have you not heard of Mathonis’ fourth son? Don’t answer that; I can see from your face that you haven’t.” The man slid his right foot backward and dipped an elegant bow, though his wry expression gave the gesture an air of self-deprecation. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Gwistain, fourth son to High King Mathonis of the Hegemony of Ravvos. You may refer to me as the Prince of Little Consequence.”

  Gwistain straightened with another of those odd, humorless smirks. “What is Anthoun teaching you it that little hamlet of his, anyway?”

  Half-chewed meat slipped from Tristan’s lips as he cursed. He fumbled and caught the steaming morsel before it hit the ground. “What?”

  The prince stooped for a wineskin, from which he took a long swallow before handing it over. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. We’re not so far from Dorishad that it is an implausible guess your identity, especially when I have heard you described before. Your pallor, hair, and height are uncommon among the Ravvosi. I can think of ten redheads I have met, and none have your particular shade.”

  “You know of me?”

  “Not many orphaned bastards stand to inherit a royal land grant from a man-loving Sage of the Realm.” Gwistain took the skin back from Tristan and corked the spout after he swallowed a mouthful. “The more important question is what you’re doing out here. I doubt Anthoun will take kindly to your running off.”

  “I didn’t run off. I left.”

  “Not much of a distinction between the two.”

  “Anthoun and Dougan left. They didn’t bother to tell me where they were going, or why.” Tristan cleared his throat when he realized he sounded like he was whining. “I grew tired of being treated like a child, so I left.”

  “Thereby behaving like the child you don’t wish to be treated as.” Gwistain shook his head with a wry smirk. “What you fail to realize, young man, is that you don’t always need to know everything. Sometimes it is better if you don’t.”

  “Says someone who has never been kept ignorant.”

  “Presumptuous. I’m a politician, which means I learn about half of what I need – and more than half of that is an outright lie. I’ve become quite good at putting together the information with clues people do not mean to disclose.” The older man narrowed his eyes at the younger. “You realize you must go back?”

  Tristan folded his arms over his chest. “With respect, are you going to march me back yourself? The only way I am going home is if I’m taken back in shackles.”

  The prince blew out a breath of annoyed amusement and turned back to the fire. “Why did I know you were going to say that? Well, come get warm and fed. We will discuss this in the morning.”

  “Pissboy washes first. I don’t want to smell him all night,” Groush said as he rose from his seat on the far side of the fire. His expression reflected irritation at Gwistain’s decision as he thrust his chin off into the shadows of the woods. “Stream’s that way. Wash yourself and your clothes.”

  The youth flicked his green eyes between the two men and slunk off in the direction Groush indicated.

  “Oh, and Tristan?” Gwistain called after him. “Don’t run. I’ll have to send Groush after you, and even the youngest Hillffolk can run farther and longer than you.”

  Chapter 18

  “Wake up.”

  Warm water smacked Tristan’s face, shocking him awake with a sputter. A hulking, shadowy figure loomed over him. He glared up at Groush as he scrubbed his face with his sleeve. His breath formed faint ghosts in front of his face before fading away. “That wasn’t necessary.”

  “Sun’s up, pissboy. We’re leaving soon.”

  Night wrapped the forest beyond the circle of firelight. If the sun had risen, there was no sign of it. “The sun isn’t up, and won’t be for at least another hour.”

  “The sky is blue, which means dawn,” Groush grunted, his upper lip curling back to reveal a long, sharp canine. The large man turned back to the fire and squatted down as Tristan squinted up at what little he could see of the sky. “You cook?”

  “Not really.”

  “Can’t cook. You fumble like a child through the forest, and piss yourself when scared. Be better if we left you here. At least you know how to wash.” He noticed the youth’s hungry ga
ze as he speared links of sausage on a long-handled fork. “Last of the sausage. Want to smell that instead of baby piss.”

  Tristan remained kneeling and wrung water from his cloak. He ignored the insult and wrapped himself in the damp wool to ward off the chill. “Where is Gwistain?”

  “Hunting. We’ll need more meat than we brought if we have to feed a child.”

  “I’m not going with you.”

  “Then you will need food staying here.”

  “I’ll walk away.”

  “Won’t go far on broken legs.”

  Tristan glared at the big man. Groush ignored him and turned the sausages over the fire. He hid his irritation as he rose and took his washed leather britches from where he had hung them to dry overnight. He took the opportunity to study the surly brute as he checked his rucksack to be certain nothing had fallen out.

  Gwistain had said that Groush was a Hillffolk, which most people believed to be terrifying monsters. All his life Anthoun had disabused him of the faerie stories – the myths and legends Dorishad’s people loved to tell and honestly believed. He had always assumed that Hillffolk were, at best, a bogie story told by parents to keep little children well-behaved. At worst, they were one of the bands of people living in the wilder parts of Western Celerus, sharing a commonality of culture and a desire to stay away from others by living in foothills and mountains.

  Now, less than six feet from him, sat one of those myths made flesh. The most apparent signs that Groush was something other than fully human were his elongated canines, but if the Hillffolk kept his mouth closed, he might be mistaken for an ill-favored man whose arms were a shade too long and whose legs were a touch too short. Uncurled from his crouched position by the fire, the Hillffolk stood more than six and a half feet tall. A thick mat of coarse hair covered the thick skin of his shoulders, back, and chest, and he realized the shirtless Hillffolk did not feel the cold the way he did. Corded muscles stood sharp against brown flesh, and his arms were as thick as the youth’s thigh. A wild mane of black hair tumbled to the middle of Groush’s back, softening the slight peak of the skull near the crown, and a heavy growth of beard obscured his powerful jaw muscles and heavy mandible.

  A deep, throaty growl emanated from Hillffolk’s chest. Tristan startled as he met the deep-set black eyes, and looked away as he recalled Gwistain’s warning not to stare. He cleared his throat as his mouth watered from the sizzling sausages’ rich scent. “That smells delicious.”

  “It’s good. It’s mine.”

  The youth blinked at the bluntness. “May I have one?”

  Groush glowered and shifted on the balls of his feet. “I said, it’s mine.”

  “Give the boy some food,” Gwistain said, stepping out of the darkness.

  Tristan startled and found the man not more than five paces away. A snared hare dangled from his hand. “How do you move so quietly?”

  “With practice,” the prince said, laying the furry body beside the fire. He nudged the Hillffolk’s hip with the toe of his boot to draw the bull’s glower on himself. “Give the boy some food.”

  “It’s mine.”

  “Then you can carry him when he faints from hunger.”

  A savage smile spread across the Hillffolk’s lips. “Wouldn’t have to hunt then. Just eat him.”

  The youth blanched as the prince lifted an eyebrow at the bull. The Hillffolk issued an annoyed sigh as he rose and handed over the fork with its cooked sausages. His rumbling voice slid through the gloom as he left the circle of light. “Need to piss anyway.”

  Tristan waited until the hulking figure faded into the darkness before glancing at Gwistain. “What’s his problem?”

  “He’s a Hillffolk.”

  “You never did explain that.”

  “You fell asleep too fast. I’d eat those sausages before he comes back, or he’s likely to take them from you.” The prince drew a long-bladed knife from his belt began dressing the rabbits. He cut the flesh around each hare’s neck before hooking his fingers in the skin and pulling it off. “What do you know about the Hillffolk?”

  “Just legends,” Tristan said as he stuffed a sausage in his mouth.

  Gwistain slit each rabbit’s gut sack open and dug out the entrails. “Legend has some basis in fact. They’re said to be older than our people, predating the barbarian tribes our ancestors tamed when they first came to these lands. Scholars think they’re not so much an ancestor of humanity, but a divergent branch in our family tree – much like the Ravvi family diverges from the House of Ravvos. They’re not quite as advanced as we are,” the prince chuckled, “though if you ever tell my cousins I made that comparison, I will deny it.”

  He tossed the gut sacks into the fire and speared the first of the hares, then set the spit over the fire. “If Anthoun has taught you our history, then you’ll recall the stories about the barbarian tribes our ancestors dealt with when we migrated to Western Celerus,” he added as he cleaned his hands on a cloth. “They ruled by strength, content to smash each other over the head with a club to protect their territory and their dominance over the other tribes.”

  “What does that have to do with Groush being hostile?”

  “The Hillffolk aren’t that different from our ancestors. You’re young and inexperienced, which in his eyes makes you no better than a simpleton compared to his people’s children. Unless you have earned a bull’s respect, they’ll take a stare as a challenge.” Gwistain gave Tristan a slight smile as he turned the sizzling meat. “Groush understands the way our people behave compared to his own, but unless you want his fangs in your throat, you would be wise to do what he says when he says it.”

  “How did he come to be in your service?”

  Gwistain stared at Tristan as though he had not heard the question. “If I were to point you in the right direction and tell you to march yourself right back to Dorishad, you wouldn’t do it, would you?”

  The youth shoved the last piece of sausage in his mouth. “I’m not going back.”

  “Not even a royal command will compel you?”

  “I can’t be too far from Troppenheim’s border. Once on the other side of the River Ossifor, I’ll no longer subject to your laws or orders.” Tristan rubbed his hands clean on his britches. “I have given this some thought. You’re too far south to be traveling to Troppenheim; if you were going there, you’d have crossed the River Ossifor at Caer Ravvos. There are no Troppenheim cities in the eastern hills and mountains, if the maps are correct. That means you must be heading to Anahar.”

  “You think so?”

  “I haven’t figured out why you’re traveling through the woods alone, rather than in state along the river. What I do know is that autumn is coming early this year. You can’t afford the delay of returning me to Dorishad.”

  “So, my two options are to let you go and explain to Anthoun why I let you slip away or take you with me.”

  Tristan cocked an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t have to tell him.”

  “Honor would compel me to,” Gwistain scowled, glancing up as Groush returned from the woods; Tristan avoided looking at him as the Hillffolk crouched beside the fire and turned the spit. “Tell me, why are you so intent on not going back to where you belong?”

  “You’ll think it silly.”

  “No sillier than your stumbling through the woods like an idiot child,” Groush said, slipping more wood beneath the spitted hare. He subsided when Gwistain made a quelling wave of the hand.

  “I want to be a knight,” Tristan said, his expression sullen as he wrapped himself in his cloak.

  “A knight.” Gwistain frowned at Groush as the Hillffolk bull snorted.

  Tristan glanced up at the toneless repetition. He expected amusement and disdain in equal measure on the prince’s face but found neither. The speckled eyes caught and held Tristan’s own as the gray-peppered eyebrows rose.

  “I don’t want to be a farmer. All my life, I’ve been told I’m a bastard, nameless orphan. For all I know, Trista
n isn’t my real name. Anthoun told me where I can and can’t go, and that I must learn how to manage Dorishad for when I inherit.” He realized he sounded petulant and tore his gaze from the older man’s to stare into the fire. “I don’t want anything from Anthoun. I want something that’s mine, something I earned. I need to define who I am, not have it defined for me.”

  “I see,” Gwistain said after a moment. He inspected the sizzling rabbit before speaking again. “It doesn’t matter what you want, and let me explain why. Some people think that they are entitled to certain things because they have noble blood, and that those like you are born to labor for them. Others believe people are born to a specific station – or, in your case, find themselves in a societal position – that limits their potential.

  “I am not one of those people. I believe a person is who they are regardless of what society says they were born to be,” the prince said. “We’ve had kings who were born to rule, and those who couldn’t wipe their ass. There have been those who were born to the plow but rose to become generals. We are who we are. Time and experience bring to us what we are due.”

  Tristan struggled to keep snideness from his voice. “What if it doesn’t? Dorishad is a hamlet in the middle of nowhere, where nothing ever happens. How am I to gain experience and—"

  “Perhaps there is an element of fate you are overlooking. Perhaps you were meant to spend your days as a farmer.”

  “I don’t believe in destiny. If you knew Anthoun, you’d know he doesn’t either. I am the master of my fate. My focus determines my reality.”

  “If I had any doubts you were Anthoun boy, you just removed them.” Gwistain sighed and scratched his cheek. “I’ll be honest, shall I? I don’t see the qualities meriting knighthood in you.”

  Tristan's eyebrows rushed together. “What? Why? I can learn—"

  “Of course,” Gwistain interrupted with a glare. “I’ve no doubt you could learn to swing a sword or ride something with more fire in its belly than a plow horse. Any idiot can; many idiots have. Most knights, even those who lack a certain intellectual robustness, possess in quantity qualities you lack.”