Orphan: Book One: Chronicles of the Fall

by Lee Ramsay

  “The Dushken were one of these tribes?”

  “In a manner of speaking. What is certain is that our barbarian ancestors lived alongside the Hillffolk long before the Migrations. Sometimes the two peoples coexisted peacefully; most times, they did not.”

  “So?”

  “You need to listen better, boy. Hillffolk are primitive compared to us – and not solely in how they organize socially. They can think like us, speak our language, and master many of the same skills – but they aren’t fully human. In many ways, they behave more like animals. They hunt more than they gather, and few of their tribes ever engaged in anything resembling agriculture.” Gwistain swallowed from his water bladder before continuing. “Hillffolk can learn how to use and make swords and armor but are content using crude spears or their hands and teeth. They are territorial in ways that make our border conflicts seem trivial.”

  “So the Dushken are a Hillffolk tribe.”

  “In a manner of speaking.” The nobleman did not elaborate on that point as he continued his tale. “The Meridan followed Terador westward, traveling overland as they were unable to assemble a fleet sizable enough to carry them. They knew, too, that their enemies would obliterate them if they discovered a fleet of ships carrying them. I suspect it was a difficult journey, based on the histories of later Migrations. They traveled vast tracks of unsettled wilderness, found passes through unmapped mountains, and crossed the steppes and deserts covering the continent’s southern and central regions.”

  The prince shook his head. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like for a people used to study and island life to cross those lands. According to my own family’s historical accounts, they had to deal with wild animals, severe climates, and the peoples who claimed those lands. Imagine those challenges while being hunted by people intent on genocide. Legend claims they evaded their pursuers but lost two-thirds of their people – some to death, others to desertion. Those who arrived in what we call now Merid are estimated to have numbered perhaps a few thousand. However I may feel about the Meridan now, their ancestors were tenacious and worthy of respect.”

  “If what you say about them is true, the Meridan weren’t willing to share the land with primitives.”

  “Now we enter into speculation. We can estimate their numbers, based on texts and histories shared by Anahari scholars – with whom the Meridan have often allied.” Gwistain waved that aside for the moment. “After a few centuries, many of the northern barbarian tribes were wiped out. Anahari scholars suggest the Meridan used their advanced technology and knowledge to seduce tribes of Hillffolk into being soldiers.”

  Tristan imagined how an army of soldiers resembling Groush might appear.

  “There was no need for them to eradicate those they called barbarians,” Gwistain said. “The tribes would have sent tribute to Merid. Life had improved, thanks to what little knowledge the Meridan shared; if their customs, language, and god were strange, what of it? Tribute was not enough for Terador, however. He was determined to claim all the land for Merid, but he needed their assistance to keep his people alive in the near term.

  “Had it not been for the beginning of the Second Migration, Terador may well have succeeded. Time has forgotten the names of the people who came from the Distant East. The only remaining Second Migration people are the Anahari, and their scholars will not share what information they have on the topic.” Gwistain shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. By the time of the Third Migration – when the Caledorn clans first crossed the mountains and the Troppenheim diverged from the Anahari to settle the flood plains between the River Ossifor and the River Ernhesh – Merid was militarily superior.”

  Tristan propped his boot on a fallen tree to retie a lace. “The Hillffolk were turned into an army to fight the new migrants?”

  “In a sense,” Gwistain said, stopping as well. He glanced ahead but did not see Groush. “You’re familiar with breeding, correct? How to select for traits that are desirable and breed out those that are not?”

  “It works well for animals. I have never heard of anyone trying it with people.”

  “Oh? Nobles don’t engage in marriage solely to seal or strengthen alliances. We do it to keep our bloodlines strong,” Gwistain said, lips curling in a sour smirk. “What was done to the Hillffolk was more aggressive than what the nobility plays at. The Anahari, you see, were nearly as advanced as the Meridan. They understood the best way to cultivate plants and breed better animals. As the Meridan considered them to be almost as pure as their own people, King Seban Terador and Grand Duchess Ankara Sheran struck an alliance.”

  “She’s the one who overthrew the King of Bayeren near the end of the Third Migration, correct?”

  “At least Anthoun has taught you that much,” Gwistain said as they resumed walking. “Ankara, working with Terador, spent years developing genealogies for the different Hillffolk tribes that would become the Dushken. They sought to create the perfect warrior and thus bred for aggressiveness, strength, and cunning. Unfortunately, they could not breed out inherent clannishness and savagery.” His expression soured. “The Dushken had diverged from their cousins and were too aggressive to form an army. Ankara, however, had a solution.”

  “Wait a moment. How could Ankara have spent years developing the genealogies? Do the Hillffolk breed faster than we do, or not live as long?”

  “As far as I know, Hillffolk live comparable lifespans.”

  “Then how—” Tristan broke off and gave Gwistain a doubtful smirk. “Magic?”

  The prince took the younger man’s arm and pulled him along. “Is it so hard to believe? I’ve already told you Seban Terador possesses the knowledge to extend his life.”

  “I’m still not convinced of that.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “I’ve never seen evidence that magic exists. Anthoun would know about it, and have books on it in his library. The closest I ever found was a book on sleight-of-hand.” The young man shook his head. “The easier explanation remains that the knowledge is passed down the family line, along with the name.”

  “How someone raised by Anthoun could be such a skeptic escapes me.”

  “He’s a scholar, and he taught me to question everything,” Tristan said, kicking a pinecone with a swell of frustration. “He always encouraged me to find my own answers to my questions. Please, keep telling me your story; it’s entertaining, at least.”

  “I hope I’m not wasting my breath. I’m not telling it for your amusement,” Gwistain said, his tone and expression sour. “We are traveling to Anahar, the seat of Ankara, who spent generations selectively breeding not only the Dushken but her own people. She used her knowledge of the arcane to...” He paused, scratching his beard as he sought the right word. “To tame the Dushken, and to further heighten their abilities.”

  “I doubt that.” Tristan shook his head with an amused chuckle. “Oh, I have no doubt ‘Ankara’ tried to breed the Dushken, but they’re just Hillffolk.”

  “No!” Groush snarled, storming toward them with knotted eyebrows. There was a wildness to his black eyes, and fear tightened his features. Tristan fell back a step as the bull pushed his face close to Tristan’s, gripping the young man’s cloak and baring his canines in a wild snarl. “Dushken are not Hillffolk. They are sick, twisted.”

  The Hillffolk shoved him aside and turned on Gwistain. “The sun’s going down, and we need to make camp. Tell the stupid boy what he needs to know tonight, and tomorrow we walk.”

  Gwistain held up a hand, accepting the chastisement. Groush gave a curt nod and stalked off into the woods.

  Tristan's voice shook as the Hillffolk’s stalked away. “Should I apologize? I didn’t mean to offend him.”

  The prince shook his head. “Groush is more forgiving than he acts. I wouldn’t mention the Dushken to him again, though. It may sound like a story to you, but to him, it is a fact of life.”

  “It sounds unbelievable.”

  “In a few days, you’ll look on
Ankara and decide for yourself,” Gwistain said. “He’s right; there is much that I need to tell you. If you’re wise, you’ll listen and accept it as truth. Ankara is friendly toward the Hegemony of Ravvos, but that friendliness goes only so far. I can’t have you annoying her, so you’ll keep your damned mouth shut.”

  “Anthoun made me study the ruling houses of each kingdom of the Hegemony, Troppenheim, Caledorn, and Anahar,” the youth said with a snort of certainty. “Anasha is the ruling grand duchess.”

  Gwistain’s gray-peppered eyebrow rose. “Is she?”

  Chapter 21

  “Prince Gwistain. Long has it been since we last met.”

  The woman entering the room was short, barely reaching the middle of Tristan’s chest, and looked perhaps ten years his senior. Her velvet skirts were an emerald so dark they appeared almost black against the gleaming parquet floor; gold knotwork embroidery edged the hem and coursed upward in thin, twisting columns to a waist so slender he could have circled it with both hands. A low-cut corset of gold velvet bound the swell of her breast; a crowned raven, displayed affronté and elevated, decorated the stiffened black leather front panel. The outer shell of a short-waisted coat was the same saturated green velvet as her skirts, the erect collar and cuffs – turned back to the elbow and fastened with elaborate silver buttons – displaying gold satin lining.

  More stunning than the clothing was the woman herself. A swanlike neck rose to an angular, symmetric face spared from severity by feminine softness. Carmine-painted lips stood in sharp contrast to the woman’s kohl-lined sapphire eyes, pearl-decorated white snood, and raven tresses. The deepness of the large, multifaceted emerald and silver chain on her breast made her translucent alabaster skin appear fragile.

  Tristan’s breath seized. Despite her youthful appearance, she carried herself with control and refinement bespeaking great age; looking into her eyes, any doubts about her longevity vanished. He almost forgot the deep bow Gwistain had instructed him to give. He remembered to do so as the older man cleared his throat.

  “Your Grace,” Gwistain said as Ankara Sheran, Grand Duchess of Anahar, glided across the floor to him with her hand extended. He brushed his lips across her knuckles, careful to avoid the silver and gold signet on her middle finger. Had his lips brushed the ring, he would not only have acknowledged Ankara as his superior in social rank but that Anahar – and its ruler – was superior to the Hegemony of Ravvos. Not kissing her hand, however, would have been considered an insult.

  The complexities and political ramifications left Tristan bewildered.

  Ankara withdrew her hand as soon as Gwistain released her fingers, her chin rising as he beckoned Tristan forward. “If it please you, might I introduce my squire, Tristan?”

  “Astonishing,” Ankara said, elegant eyebrows arching. She did not extend her hand as Tristan gave a second shallower bow. “An unusual coloring for a Ravvosi, and he is quite tall. Rather old to be a squire as well. Might I inquire as to his family?”

  “Your grace is aware that a Ravvosi squire forsakes his family name during his indentured training – the exception being, of course, when tragedy strikes and the youth inherits. Your grace will remember as well that it is considered impolite to ask the squire details of his family.”

  “You Ravvosi and your rules of conduct.”

  “Our traditions are no less deeply held than those of Anahar,” Gwistain said. “He is new to my service due to some, shall we say, complications. I assure you, he comes from a home of good repute and standing with my father the high king.”

  “I have no qualms extending him my hospitality for as long as you vouch for his conduct.” Ankara caught Tristan’s eyes with her own, holding his gaze unblinking. The youth felt trapped, seeing himself reflected the depths of her pupils. A chill washed across his skin, the hairs on his arms and nape rising as a fleeting expression crossed her alabaster face. Her voice was a dangerous purr as she asked, “He knows the truth, then?”

  “He does,” Gwistain said with a slight bow of his head. “The matter bringing me to your presence is sensitive enough that I deemed it essential for my squire to know the details lest something befall me, and he needed to continue my mission.”

  “Young man, you have been gifted with something only a privileged few know. You had best prove trustworthy, and not only for the reputation of your liege and his House,” she said, an icy edge to her tone. She held Tristan’s gaze a moment longer before releasing it to turn a disapproving frown on Gwistain. “You, however, had no right to disclose such sensitive information to a boy.”

  “Gristabanhalla,” Gwistain said, his expression firm beneath his beard as the small woman paced toward him.

  Ankara froze midstep. “What did you say?”

  “Gristabanhalla.”

  The grand duchess’ expression hardened as she speared Tristan with her sapphire gaze. “Has your lord seen fit to tell you how he came to know my House’s watchword?”

  A confused look crossed the young man’s face. He shook his head and wondered what a watchword was. “He has not, Your Grace.”

  “Then he has some sense of honor. A pity, in a way. It is quite a tale, with danger and adventure enough to flame the foolish heart. Suffice to say, Gwistain’s great grandfather was still a babe in swaddling clothes when a great kindness was shown to me.” Ankara tilted her head, her eyebrow rising a fraction as she faced the prince. “There is a debt outstanding, and the accounts must balance. I presume you have come to collect on that debt on behalf of King Mathonis?”

  “In my father’s name, Your Grace. He intends no insult, and regrets his health is such that he cannot present his request in person.”

  “He intends no insult, yet he sends his fourth-born son rather than one of his elder children.”

  “As heir, it was decided my brother Rathonis should remain at Caer Ravvos. Barrtien could not be spared from his duties as Lord Commander of the Royal Army – and do you honestly believe Braetis would deign to speak with you?” Gwistain folded his hands behind his back. “How much greater would the insult be if a royal ambassador been dispatched?”

  “Interesting that the matter is grave enough for Mathonis to tell his youngest son the finer details, but not the elder three. Are you certain it is not you who he favors in the line of succession?” There was no hint of a question in Ankara’s voice. “Very well. Your squire will be quartered, and I shall escort you to your chambers so you may wash and rest before we speak of your mission. Sathra?”

  Tristan had hardly noticed the young woman accompanying the grand duchess until she curtsied. “Your Grace?”

  “Attend to young Tristan,” the grand duchess ordered as she slipped her hand through Gwistain’s elbow. “Be sure he is well-tended and dressed. We shall dine after our guests have rested.”

  “What of Groush?” Gwistain asked as Ankara guided him toward a door leading deeper into the castle.

  “Your pet Hillffolk is in a setting more suitable for one of his kind. Come, let us get you settled.”

  SATHRA LED TRISTAN from the opulent reception room through a door opposite the one through which Ankara led Gwistain. He was not so bewildered by his encounter with the grand duchess to miss the significance of Anahar’s ruler personally escorting the prince to chambers.

  Perhaps that is the proper courtesy extended to a visiting royal, he thought, though he doubted it.

  Lovely as Ankara was, the shadows of ancient knowledge in her eyes and her regal bearing set his nerves on edge. In contrast, Sathra was more what he expected. Perhaps four years his senior, she lacked the grand duchess elegant, studied mannerisms and retained a touch of girlish softness.

  Tristan studied the young woman and recognized a similarity of features to Ankara’s own. Sathra possessed the same long-bridged nose with a slight upturn to the tip, but her lips were not quite as full and a shade wider. Her jaw's angle was less pronounced and the high cheekbones less severe, but her powder-softened skin possessed the same translu
cent alabaster quality. She wore her mahogany locks in a thick, long braid that ran down her spine to brush the curve of her waist.

  “Is something the matter?” Sathra asked, the kohl lining her ice blue eyes lending them an electric quality; her accent – more pronounced than Ankara’s – possessed a guttural quality that added an edge to the words. Patterned after Ankara’s dress but lacking the elaborate embroidery, the hem of her emerald gown whispered against polished parquet tiles as she came to a stop. “Most people find this wing of the castle breathtaking, but you have scarcely taken your eyes from me since your lord departed with the grand duchess.”

  Tristan’s cheeks flamed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”

  A smile turned the corners of her lips upward as her long fingers brushed the simple emerald pendant hanging from a serpentine silver chain. “No need to apologize. I find your frank admiration flattering. It is all too easy to fade into the background when one attends the grand duchess.”

  “Then whoever misses you is blind,” Tristan said, the words tumbling from his lips without thought. His flush deepened under Sathra’s amused look and recalled he had not truly noticed her until she had been called forth. “I couldn’t help but see a resemblance between you and the grand duchess. Are you related?”

  “We are,” Sathra said, surprise altering the soft pitch of her voice as she resumed walking. Tristan fell into step at her side. “My House, Sheranath, is a branch of the grand duchess’s own House Sheran.”

  “That would make your father a marquess, then?”

  The surprise on Sathra’s face sharpened as her thin eyebrows rose. “You are familiar with Anahari peerage?”