Orphan: Book One: Chronicles of the Fall

by Lee Ramsay

“I have studied a bit. As the prince’s squire, he thought it would be wise to familiarize me with how other nations organize their peerage,” he said, enriching the lie Gwistain concocted to explain his presence. Sweat prickled his hairline as he remembered reading something about keeping such embellishments small and easy to remember.

  “Then you are aware the rank belongs to my mother. Anahar is matriarchal, though we retain the patronymics which existed prior to the duchy gaining its sovereignty; husbands take our name upon marriage,” Sathra said, giving no indication his lie had been noticed. “It confuses me why other nations rely on a father’s bloodline. There is no guarantee a child is born from a man’s seed, but there is no denying the blood of birth.”

  “I meant no offense.”

  “You have given none.” She crossed her wrists at the small of her back as she studied him. “What is the proper way to address one of your station? Squire? Esquire? Sir is not appropriate, I believe.”

  “Just Tristan. Esquire is for those who inherit land without title. Should you be addressed in any particular manner?”

  “Do you mean with an honorific, such as ‘my lady’? No. If I understand correctly, we are in a similar duty. Despite my birth, my station is somewhat other than that to which I am entitled.” Sathra held his eyes for a long moment, her lips curved in the smile worn through most of their conversation. “You are a surprise – not because you are surprisingly knowledgeable about Anahar, but because you still haven’t shown the least bit of wonder at the royal residence. I still find the beauty can take my breath away despite living here these past eleven years. Is Caer Ravvos so lovely that Castle Feinthresh pales in comparison, or do you find our conversation so stimulating that you have yet to find time to look about?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be interested in talking with you?” he asked, his eyebrows coming together in confusion. “I have indeed been looking. I figured it would be inappropriate to gawk after being caught staring once already.”

  That, at least, was mostly true. He had been overwhelmed by Feinthresh Castle’s size when he had arrived. Admission to the keep and the reception chamber left him speechless as he stared at plush furniture, white marble walls, gleaming parquet wooden floors the color of rich butter, and ceilings patterned in intricate gold leaf. Imposing statues carved to represent the masculine and feminine ideal stood in alcoves. Vast tapestries hung from polished brass poles on wide stretches of the walls, and exquisite oil portraits in gilt frames filled smaller spaces.

  Tristan tried not to stare too long at any one thing, lest his expression betray his rustic upbringing. The hall in which he and Sathra stood was longer than Dorishad’s manor house's entire length and nearly as wide.

  “Then you possess a strong will. These halls are meant to impress and remind our peers that their wealth and position is small compared to that of the grand duchess.” Sathra continued down the hallway with a casual gesture. “Come. Your rooms are this way.”

  The youth followed her down to what he presumed was one of the castle’s corner towers. He was surprised at the spiral staircase's sheer scale; Anthoun’s books described castles as defensive structures, and these steps were grander than he expected. Rather than a cramped, steep ascent, the risers were broad in width and depth while being shallow in height, designed more for making an entrance on descent than slowing an assault.

  Sathra led him upward, the steps well-lit by candles burning in silver candelabra mounted beside windows set in the thick walls. They passed the keep’s second floor and the third as well, and Tristan glanced down vast, lavish decorated halls as they climbed. “How far from Prince Gwistain will my rooms be?”

  “This is the servants’ wing, as well as chambers for the attendants of visiting peerage. Your lord will be staying in chambers reserved for peers from distant parts of Anahar,” Sathra said, turning off the stairs on the fourth floor. Her breast rose against the leather of her plain black corset as she caught her breath. “Worry not; you have no duties to your lord beyond attendance. As part of the suite of a foreign royal, you are a guest of House Sheran. Our servants will see to his – and your – every need.”

  Floor-to-ceiling windows stood at each end of the hall Sathra led him down. Afternoon sunlight poured through the panes, which faced the towering cliff against which Feinthresh Castle rested. He moved to the window as Sathra drew a ring of keys from an inner pocket coat and slid it into the lock. His perspective allowed him to look over the castle’s curtain wall to a waterfall-fed lake beyond.

  “Quite the view,” he said as the tumblers clicked open. “I imagine you can view the city from the higher floors.”

  “You can, though the view of what lays beyond is far more appealing. You can see the pass through which the River Ossifor flows from the royal apartments.” Sathra slipped the key from the ring and handed it to him. “Come, let me show you your room. It is a long way from Caer Ravvos, and I’m sure you’ll wish to bathe and rest before dining.”

  He took the key and followed her through the double doors. He came to an abrupt stop on the threshold of the three-room suite. “These are servant’s quarters?”

  “For senior servants of foreign dignitaries, yes.” The noblewoman brushed past him and beckoned for him to follow with a curl of her fingers.

  Delicate furniture carved from polished beech and upholstered in white velvet filled the space, tastefully arranged to provide intimacy without intrusiveness. A massive fireplace separated the first room from the second; two sets of doors framed the hearth, which led to a room with a deep sunken tub and comfortable divans arranged around another floor-to-ceiling window, as well as a smaller privy closet set into the room’s corner. A second hearth stood opposite the first; through the doors framing it lay the bedchamber. A bed larger than his entire room in Dorishad filled the space with room to spare for several chairs and an armoire.

  Sathra folded her hands behind her back with a smile as the young man tried to comprehend the luxury around him. “So, you can be impressed. I was beginning to wonder.”

  “If these are what the servants stay in, your chambers must be...” He trailed off, uncertain of the words to describe what he envisioned.

  “They are indeed. Our peers are accustomed to fine living, and Feinthresh Castle impresses even their jaded aesthetic. Anahar may not have close ties with the countries of Western Celerus, but our connections with the southern nations and the desert sultanates have made us wealthy.”

  Plucking his sleeve, she returned to the bathing chamber and knelt beside the sunken tub. “Do you see these silver handles? You can bring both hot and cold water to the tub to adjust the temperature with these. Do not worry about draining our cisterns; the water is diverted from the river directly before it falls over the mountain’s edge.”

  Tristan studied the faucet in an effort to determine how water would rise and flow from it. “How do you heat the water?”

  “A curious question, from a curious boy. Most accept that it is so and never think to ask how. Perhaps, if you are here any length of time, I will show you some of the castle’s inner workings.” Sathra gave him a quizzical look as she rose from her crouch. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must attend to the grand duchess. Please, linger with your bath. Servants will bring your things, as well as suitable attire for this evening.”

  Chapter 22

  Tristan had taken Dorishad’s bathhouse for granted until Dougan explained how most people settled for boiled water poured into a small wooden tub. The hamlet was wealthier than he realized if it could afford a building devoted to no other purpose than soaking in a hot bath.

  A scratch came from the door moments after Sathra departed. Three servants in simple dresses delivered soaps, clothing, and a razor. One of the women laid fires in the hearths, while another installed outfits of plush velvet, sleek silk and satin, and soft linens in the wardrobe. The third servant placed his rucksack – taken from him on arrival, along with his hatchet – in the bedchamber before turning dow
n the covers.

  There was no denying that the women were lovely, though he found their similarity in form and feature somewhat disturbing. Though the Ravvosi had a commonality of coloring and build, their appearances varied in a way the Anahari did not.

  The servants were swift and efficient and soon left him to gape his luxurious surroundings. As steaming water filled the sunken marble from silver spigots, Dorishad’s bathhouse seemed crude in comparison. He hissed as he settled on a deep stone bench shaped for lounging, his skin stinging from the heat. Reclined against the pool’s side, he gazed through the steam-fogged window and caught glimpses of the waterfall plummeting from the pine-blanketed mountain against which the castle stood.

  “So, this is what decadent means.” His soft words echoed back to him from the marble walls and tiles.

  His mind on all he had seen since entering the sovereign duchy, he settled into his soak and reviewed all Gwistain had told him to prepare for the charade of being a prince’s squire.

  TRISTAN’S FIRST SIGHT of the River Ossifor disabused him of the notion that much river trade reached Anahar’s borders. The river frothed around boulders worn smooth, its diverging flow creating numerous islands and lakes before joining into a single course farther to the north. Its broad expanse formed the border between easternmost Troppenheim and Shreth. Though the foothills and forests were not Anahari territories, both had long felt their hand.

  Rather than a wild profusion of trees and tangled undergrowth, the forest had been tamed. Oaks grew in long, straight lines, and the ground was grassy beneath their canopies. Some trees were young; saplings grew in the depressions and gaps where older trees had been cut down and their stumps torn out. The forest had been cleared in other places to make room for small farms along the Ossifor’s bank; fruit and nut trees grew in well-tended orchards and groves, creating living walls between the settlements and the forest.

  It was here that Tristan caught his first glimpse of an Anahari, albeit from a distance. Generations of breeding had cultivated their appearance every bit as much as agriculture shaped their land. Suspicious gazes followed them as the watchers disappeared behind their doors or shuttered their windows. They were short-statured and slender, possessing pale skin, dark hair verging on black, and eyes of varying blue shades.

  Gwistain shrugged when the youth mentioned it. “You’ll find some variation among the commoners. In Anahari society, they are the freest to marry who they wish, as long as the local census overseer in charge of tracking bloodlines approves the union. Meet a commoner after a long winter, and you’ll find their tans replaced with skin like cream. It’s rare to find one with the finer skin tones of the nobility.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Everyone in Anahar is the property of the state and a member of a caste,” the prince said, taking a piece of jerky Groush offered and tearing it with his teeth. “If you are born a farmer, you will remain a farmer – and wed a farmer to produce more farmers.

  “Census keepers watch for someone with differing aptitudes, however. If a farmer proves to be a gifted sculptor and passes examinations, their place in society is reevaluated.” He shrugged as he chewed. “The higher you move into the noble classes, the more regulated the process. Families marry for political reasons and to breed truer to their idealized ancestry. A child born with lighter hair or brown eyes, for instance, is scorned for possessing a sullied bloodline.”

  Tristan stared at the older man. “A child should not be held accountable for the circumstances of their birth.”

  “According to Anahari philosophy, they should not exist,” the prince said with a wince. “Which brings us to a singular problem – you.”

  Bastard children, Gwistain explained, were anathema to the Anahari mindset even more than those displaying mixed ancestry. No one outside Anahar knew what happened to them beyond their disappearance, as the Anahari hid such shameful individuals from society. As Tristan did not know who his parents were, his illegitimacy would be assumed and his presence considered an insult.

  Worse, to the Anahari mind at least, was his orphanry.

  “Be glad you live in the Hegemony, Tristan. A nameless orphan has a hard enough time in our lands, but such a life in Anahar...”

  “As if I had a choice. Are you saying an Anahari orphan is less desirable than a bastard or a child of mixed descent?”

  “An orphan has no family. You need to understand, Anahari have two loyalties – the state and their House. Orphans lack the support of the latter, and therefore have difficulty functioning within the former.”

  None of this information had been in Anthoun’s books. “What if there is a war, or a disease?”

  “It wouldn’t matter. A House which does not survive is a weak, failed bloodline.” Gwistain snorted at the look on the youth’s face. “I see questions in your eyes. I’m guessing they’re the same ones I asked when I learned about Anahar. I got the ambassador blind drunk and asked what are generally considered rude questions, and our spies confirmed much of what he told me.”

  Tristan shivered as a chill rose from somewhere deep within. “You said I present a complication?”

  “You will draw attention because you don’t fit the average Ravvosi appearance,” the prince said. “A mixed heritage can explain that easily enough; marriages between a Ravvosi and someone from Troppenheim or Caledorn, or one of the island nations, do happen. We even have children born of Anahari bloodlines, which is where we get our spies. Using people in such a manner isn’t something we’re proud of, but it is a political reality.”

  Gwistain pushed the rest of his jerky into his mouth and chewed in silence for a moment. “We can disguise your lack of family. It’s an old custom, but we can name you my squire and claim tradition forbids disclosure of your House. Ankara is said to be a stickler for tradition, so I doubt she will question it.”

  Tristan digested the nobleman’s words. “I’ve made things harder for you, haven’t I?”

  “It would have been easier had you gone back to Dorishad. One thing you’ll learn, my young friend, is that you must adapt to the situation in front of you.” The prince slapped the youth’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Fortunately, you’re better educated than most squires. We should be able to create a believable charade.”

  So involved had he become in his discussions with Gwistain and doing his best to avoid annoying Groush that he had forgotten one of his reasons for leaving home. One moment they crossed through the curated forest; the next, they were on cleared land, staring up at mountains. Snow-capped peaks blanketed with dense forests rose from cracked, broken foothills, with still taller mountains purpled by distance behind those. The Laithach Mountains stretched to the narrow pass’s north; the range would eventually join with other chains running through Caledorn and Reesenat and north to the frigid Seheric Sea. To the south ran the Tauernens, which eventually looked over the Ashana Sea.

  “Close your mouth before something flies into it,” the bull said when they stopped to rest.

  “I’ve never seen mountains.”

  Groush shook his head and pointed. “See those? Mountains. They all look the same.”

  They camped beside the river, the air mountain cold with a deeper bite from the river’s dampness. Dawn found them once more on the move, following a crude road along the pass’s northern side. The climb was steep and winding, with the river cutting a deep channel far below them on one side and the mountain a wall on the other.

  For half the day they walked, Groush complaining about their pace while Gwistain lectured Tristan on things he needed to feign being a squire. Emerging from the pass, they found themselves on the outskirts of a town. It was here he first saw how regulated Anahari society was.

  Laid out in a grid, Dothal was a small village with perhaps three hundred people. Larger buildings in the village center belonged to the local prefect and governance. Around these stood smaller homes, their white walls made from quarried stone and their sloped roofs shingled in s
moky slate; those farthest from the village center were no more than thatch-roofed cottages. Fruit trees grew where the streets intersected, and the fields surrounding the village flourished with autumnal vegetables.

  Distinguishing the commoners from the higher classes was easy; their clothing was simpler and made from durable wools and leathers, though the colors were vibrant. Like Dorishad’s people, the men wore leather jerkins over linen shirts, with the addition of long wool coats brushing their knees. The women, however, wore a cut of dress where the bodice and skirts were one piece, laced from the waist to the center of the chest and with loose sleeves tied to the shoulders. Both men and women wore knitted slouch caps that could be pulled down over the ears when the cold wind blew.

  Tristan expected such a rigid and inflexible society to produce unhappy people; what he found appeared quite the opposite. The people were well-fed and healthy, with a surety of place. Interactions between commoners and the wealthier residents lacked the animosity he had experienced when Duke Riand had come to Dorishad.

  They followed the road for several more days, passing through other villages and taking north forks. The deeper into Anahar they traveled, the more he saw signs of strictly managed agriculture, carefully tended woodlands, and exactingly designed communities. Twice they stopped for meals in taverns, where their foreignness brought bemused looks. The food was plentiful, usually venison or mutton in stews, and the ale rich and dark. Gwistain purchased a new pair of boots to replace Tristan’s old ones; the soles had failed from walking across uneven and rocky ground.

  The road wound deeper into the mountains with the River Ossifor babbled beside them, bringing them to a high valley. Here the road ended, with the sole way forward a maze of gates built into chest-high rock walls separating a patchwork of fields. A waterfall, fed by a glacier in the higher peaks, plummeted to a vast lake beside a city before flowing into the River Ossifor. Blurred by distance and a haze of gray smoke, he could distinguish little against the blinding white of the mountain.