by Lee Ramsay
“Which qualities would those be?” the youth asked, insulted and angry.
“Above all, loyalty and comprehension of duty,” the prince said sharply. “If you had any of the former, you would be at Dorishad, waiting for the ward father who took you in as an infant to return. If you possessed the latter, you would be doing your part to make the hamlet function, as others depend on you to do. You also have a duty to do as I, your sovereign lord, tell you – but we will set that aside for the moment, as I’m a kind and generous man.”
The nobleman took a wineskin from his open pack and pulled the stopper. He took a swallow, then plugged it and tossed it over the fire to Tristan. “Courage you have, I’ll grant you that – but it is the wrong kind. Any fool can run off ill-prepared for what awaits them. It takes a different kind of courage to set aside your desires for your fellows’ betterment. These values are the core of honor, and honor is the very heart of what it means to be a knight.”
Tristan's cheeks burned with shame. For the first time since jumping the wall, he regretted his choices. He knew he was disappointing many people – Anthoun, Dougan, Karilen, and others – but it mattered for the first time since leaving home. A rebellious voice asked why he should tolerate their disappointing him, but it was a weak justification for his actions.
Silence hung between the three of them as dawn’s blue light brightened to a soft gray. Colors seeped back into the forest as Gwistain pulled the hare from the fire and slid it into the waiting cloth Groush held.
“There is one thing in your favor, though,” the prince said as the Hillffolk bull wrapped the meat.
“What’s that?”
“You can start learning and putting those values into practice now. As I can’t trust you to return to Dorishad on your own, and as you so kindly informed me that I can’t spare the time to return you myself, you are coming with me.” Gwistain’s teeth shone white as he smiled. “I expect you to behave honorably.”
Chapter 19
“We are going to Anahar, aren’t we?” Tristan asked as he followed Gwistain, who in turn followed Groush. He hiked his rucksack higher on his shoulders, grateful he was not carrying the large pack – which contained provisions and cooking utensils – the muscular Hillffolk bore.
“We are.”
“May I ask why?”
Gwistain ducked under a low-hanging pine bough. “I doubt word has reached as far south as Dorishad, but there are rumblings of a war brewing with Troppenheim. That in itself is nothing new, but it’s the manner in which our northern neighbors are rising which is troubling. Anthoun and Dougan have taught you about the War of Tenegath, yes?”
“They said it was fought over the delta at the mouth of the River Ossifor. Something about Troppenheim’s king wanting to build a port.”
The prince nodded as they followed Groush around a cluster of pines too dense to pass through. “That is what started it. Unfortunately for Troppenheim, Caer Ravvos already sits on the river’s southern bank and has its own harbor. The port town they wanted was a feint – by King Seban Terador of Merid.”
“How so?”
“There are two possible theories. The first is that Troppenheim needed a port of its own. Despite being bordered on the north and south by rivers and by the Rhistoric Ocean on its western coastline, Troppenheim is landlocked. Caer Ravvos controls the delta and bay at the mouth of the River Ossifor, and the Hegemony has smaller ports along the coastline. To conduct sea trade, Troppenheim must pay fees to the Hegemony to use our ports; shoals riddle their coastline, especially at the mouth of the River Ernhesh.”
“So, the War of Tenegath was fought over control of the port?”
“If you believe the first theory.”
“I thought Troppenheim and Caledorn were allied. Rather than fight a war, why not continue to trade through them?”
“Darhadeen is Caledorn’s sole large port, as well as its capital. Ice floes make a voyage on the Seheric Sea impassible every winter, often from late autumn through mid-spring. Having your goods sit in port for nearly half the year is no way to make a profit – particularly when captains willing to dock there must contend with Reesenat raiders and pirates from island nations.
“According to the second theory, King Tenegath of Troppenheim recognized that his country was being economically throttled – and was willing to go to war because of it.” Gwistain led them around another stand of trees. “With both the Hegemony and the Akemaari controlling river trade on the Ossifor, the Kingdom of Ravvos commanding a bay port, and Caledorn an unreliable sea trade route, it is a solid possibility.”
The youth considered the problem as he walked, calling to mind the maps he had studied in Anthoun’s library. “Except that, as a vassal state, they should have been able to trade through the Kingdom of Merid’s ports. The war was unnecessary.”
“You forget the Meridans’ ideological mindset, which underpins the second theory behind why the war broke out. Though Merid has two ports, only Meridan ships are permitted to dock in them – and foreign overland trade caravans are not permitted to cross their borders.”
“Why?”
“They are ethnic purists who consider the people of Western Celerus mongrels. In their view, intermarriage with the barbarians who once claimed this region sullied our ancient bloodlines. They also did not sign trade and currency agreements at the Council of Mytoos; they devalue both Troppenheim and Caledorn goods by not doing so. As vassal states, both nations also lose a significant amount of their trade as ‘tribute’ to King Seban Terador.” Gwistain’s lip curled sourly. “Thus, the second theory postulates that Merid was behind the war all along – exploiting the trade situation to incite Troppenheim to war with the Hegemony of Ravvos, and thereby weaken both nations.”
“That doesn’t make sense, though. Anthoun once said Troppenheim and Caledorn were vassal states due to Merid’s desire for a buffer against the Hegemony. Wouldn’t the Meridan want Troppenheim to be strong?” Tristan’s brow furrowed as a thought occurred to him. “Unless...unless King Tenegath decided he no longer wanted Troppenheim to be subordinate to Merid.”
“Which is what happened once the war was fully engaged,” Gwistain nodded. “King Tenegath of Troppenheim realized Seban Terador had manipulated him into the war, and though he struck a truce with the Hegemony of Ravvos, the fighting did not end. Troppenheim and Caledorn allied against Merid, and the war dragged on for years before a truce was brokered.”
Tristan remembered something that Jayna told him after she returned from the Harvest Festival. He kicked himself for not connecting different pieces of information sooner. “So, Duke Riand was in Dorishad because of the possibility of war with Troppenheim, and the rumors of the warlord called the Horned Knight might mean Merid is stirring trouble.”
He crashed into Gwistain as the older man stopped and faced him. “Riand was in Dorishad? He went and saw Anthoun?”
“You didn’t know?”
“Very little Riand does interests me. What I do know is that he loathes Anthoun. It would take a royal command for him to visit the sage – which means King Garoos is concerned about Troppenheim, and possibly Merid.” He regarded Tristan with curiosity. “How did you hear about the Horned Knight? What do you know of him?”
“Nothing more than rumors one of the girls overheard in Dresden Township. He’s a warlord riding through Troppenheim, burning villages and killing everyone he meets.”
“If he killed everyone, there’d be nobody to say who was doing it.”
“That’s what I told Jayna,” Tristan said. “I’m not sure what the fuss is about. The warlord has been identified. He’s just a man with a small army. Someone needs to take a bigger army to find and fight him.”
“’Just a man with a small army.’ Sweet gods, boy, do you have any idea of what it is you are talking about?” Gwistain shook his head when he saw the younger man’s confusion. “No, you wouldn’t, as Anthoun is teaching you the practicalities of running a farm. I begin to see why you we
re frustrated enough to run.”
“I didn’t run—"
“No, you left. Big difference,” the prince said, waving off the protestation. “It would be bad enough if any warlord was out raiding with a small army. What makes it worse is that this is an army out of Merid.”
“So?”
Gwistain’s eyes widened in bemused irritation, but Groush stomped toward them before he could reply. Canines bared, the Hillffolk glowered at the youth before turning his black eyes on the nobleman. “It’s midday. You talk while you walk, or you talk, or you walk. Make up your mind. Bad enough the boy is slow, but I expect better of you.”
With another stern look divided between them the bull stomped away, thick-soled boots tearing through the ferns and undergrowth. Gwistain took Tristan’s elbow with a chuckle and pulled him along. “I’m surprised it took him this long to get annoyed with us. I’ll try and explain things as we walk.”
GWISTAIN’S VOICE SANK into the rhythm of a born storyteller. “Long ago, so the story goes, the lands of Celerus were wilder and less populated than they are now. The ancient bloodlines from which we draw our heritage rose in the Distant East, organized into warring city-states. Jungles were lush and prosperous along the continent’s southern and eastern edge; the realms arising there grew wealthy from silk and agriculture. Northern and eastern countries gained wealth and power from fisheries, timber, and mines. Other city-states arose on the islands and archipelagos, growing strong through seaborne trade and the dispensation of acquired knowledge. “Of these latter city-states was one we call Old Merid.”
The prince sipped from his water skin. “If not the smallest and meanest of island nations, it was among them. Old Merid was agriculturally poor. Typhoons and monsoons washed away the soil in the summer months, and it was far enough north to choke on winter’s snow and ice. Fisheries were claimed by more powerful nations, leaving the Meridan little enough to feed themselves. They had no ore with which to build an army and too few trees to build a trading fleet or naval force capable of competing with the great nations.”
The prince slung the water skin over his shoulder and led Tristan across a fast-moving stream. He waited until the younger man jumped from the last of the slick stones rising above the cold water before continuing his story. “Such a poor and weak city-state should have been swallowed by one of its neighbors. According to the histories we have from before the migrations, it was not unusual for a city-state to rise from obscurity to power by absorbing weaker neighbors – only to have one of the conquered cities rebel and bring them down from within. Merid survived the same fate, though some say it is because they possessed nothing worth wanting.
“But Old Merid had one advantage – it was a repository of knowledge, which they prized above all else. They shared their learning with all who came to them, providing advisors to all the realms in the belief that knowledge was the providence of the goddess Huerst. They believed it was Huerst’s divine will that humanity rise from ignorance to achieve peace and plenty.”
“You make the religion sound as though it is a good one. The Athenaeum of Huerst is a foul religion, whose worshippers are said to murder children and commit the darkest of rituals.”
“Is that what Anthoun taught you?”
“Not directly, no,” Tristan admitted. “He has little to say on the subject of religion, but he does have a collection of books discussing different faiths.”
Gwistain slanted a glance at the youth, his lips quirked in a sour smile. “You sound as though you were thrilled to read them. Let me tell the story, and then you can decide for yourself.”
The prince fell silent as he collected his thoughts. “There were, of course, city-states who viewed an educated populace as a threat to their elite classes; they demonized the religion of Huerst as threatening their own doctrines and outlawed the faith. These city-states expelled the Magisters of the Athenaeum, executed them on charges of inciting insurrection, or murdered them for heretical beliefs. However, Old Merid was not without its allies, and invasions were stopped by fleets claiming the country as a protectorate.”
Understanding came to Tristan then, answering a question he had never asked Anthoun for fear of appearing stupid. “The wars to destroy Old Merid prompted the Migrations.”
“In part, but not for many centuries,” Gwistain nodded. “Those supporting Merid believed knowledge was the key to wisdom; they may have believed in other gods in their own countries, but tolerated different worldviews as a means to enrich their society – and, of course, their own wealth. Medicine, science, philosophy...all these contributed to economic strength and power. A good thing, too, since those city-states defending Merid were few and needed to be more advanced than their adversaries to survive.”
Gwistain lengthened his stride, beckoning for Tristan to keep up. “About four thousand years ago, however, Old Merid was nearly destroyed by those who began to realize that the Meridan were suppressing some knowledge – or sabotaging the advancement of their neighbors while creating the appearance of being generous with their learning. Their island was overrun, their libraries and temples burned for containing heretical teachings. We will never know how many people were slaughtered, though the stories say the sea ran black against blood-red sand. When the fires died, a new king sat the throne – Seban Terador.
“Knowledge is not evil, though the uses of it can be,” he said, his face grim. “A fire is a fire. It warms those who are cold, cooks our meals, provides light against darkness, and can cauterize wounds. Fire can also kill a person with intense pain, destroy crops, or burn down a city.” His eyebrow cocked as he glanced at Tristan. “Yet because fire can cause suffering and possesses intrinsic power, should the knowledge of how to make it be controlled by the powerful and the godly?”
“That is a ridiculous question. Everyone knows how to make a fire.”
“For argument’s sake, let us say not everyone does. Let us say only the clergy for the god you worship possess the knowledge. Someone comes along and shows you how to strike certain stones together to create a spark and set tinder and wood ablaze. The fire’s magic becomes ordinary.”
“So?”
“Seban Terador undermined entire countries by sending agents into foreign lands with knowledge. He crippled dogma with literacy and devastated faith with reason. People began questioning long-held beliefs, resulting in fractured unity. Brother turned against brother as society became unstable. The oppressed tore down their oppressors; in turn, they fell to those who had lost any sense of their place in society. Seban Terador moved into the chaos and beneficently lifted people up, or so it seemed. In truth, he suppressed certain knowledge – or employed it – to make himself more powerful.”
“Such as?”
“Magic.”
Tristan froze, his expression incredulous. “You’re joking. Magic does not exist.”
Gwistain regarded the youth with amusement as he, too, stopped. “You’ll accept rumors of foul rituals and murder, but not magic? Have you not listened to a word I said? You didn’t blink when I mentioned Seban Terador came to power four thousand years ago.”
“It’s a family name, passed down through the generations,” Tristan said with a dismissive shake of the head. “What would you have me believe, children’s stories rather than more rational reality?”
“Spoken like the son of a scholar.”
“You don’t mean—”
The prince laid his hand on the youth’s shoulder and coaxed him forward once more. “I do not mean to imply Anthoun is a follower of Huerst. I know how he views theology of all stripes. Power derives as much from knowledge as the suppression of that which you wish to keep secret.”
“But magic...”
“Is it that implausible?” Gwistain asked, extending his hand toward Groush’s broad form. “A day ago, you thought Hillffolk a myth, or at most an unfavorable description of people who avoided society – yet there one stands, not twenty paces from you.”
Tristan’s br
ow furrowed hard enough to make his temples ache. “Let’s suppose you’re telling the truth, and Seban Terador has roamed the world for thousands of years. If he was so powerful, why were the Merid numbered among the peoples of the First Migration?”
“Seban Terador used his knowledge of political and religious fault lines to topple city-state after city-state, consuming them until none were left who might stand against Old Merid alone,” Gwistain said. “The Meridan grew in power and influence, and used that power to exterminate opponents through deception and manipulation. It was a matter of time before the survivors banded together. Old Merid suffered a second razing, though the war leading to its eventual destruction devastated the other city-states.”
The prince lifted a hand to forestall any more interruptions. “Terador had planned for such an eventuality, and gathered his most loyal subjects together before ships bearing Old Merid’s destruction became visible on the horizon. Boarding their own ships, the Meridan abandoned their homeland and sailed westward, leaving behind nothing but burned athenaeums. Agents throughout the other city-states set fire to libraries and universities before they, too, turned westward. Deprived of centuries of knowledge, the city-states of the Distant East sank into barbarism and ignorance.”
“While Old Merid’s survivors moved west with what knowledge they stole.”
“I think you begin to understand. Who knows what knowledge is common in the lands the Meridan settled? No one is allowed past their borders.”
“Surely someone has tried.”
Gwistain’s face grew hard around haunted eyes. “My young friend, that is where the Dushken – and Anahar – come into the story.”
Chapter 20
“Dushken?” Tristan asked, seeing Gwistain’s troubled expression. “Who are the Dushken?”
“What are the Dushken is the more accurate way to phrase the question. The word itself roughly translates to ‘huntsman,’” Gwistain said. He glanced ahead to judge the distance between them and Groush as the Hillffolk bull threaded his way between the trees and lowered his voice. “You recall what I said about barbarian tribes populating Western Celerus before the Migrations began?”
