Orphan: Book One: Chronicles of the Fall

by Lee Ramsay

  Built on a spur overlooking the city loomed an imposing castle, its curtain walls encompassing the keep on three sides with the mountain itself the spine. Sunlight reflected in the windows visible over the walls, five towers like the fingers of an upturned palm reaching toward the deep blue sky.

  “Feinthresh Castle, the royal seat of Ankara Sheran, Grand Duchess of Anahar,” Gwistain said.

  “You’d think the road would lead to it,” Tristan said, looking out over the maze of fields. Some were filled with crops, while others were pastures for flocks of sheep or small herds of cattle.

  “What better way to slow an invading army than by building row after row of barriers that must be either knocked down or navigated? It is an economical mind that turned those defenses into a means to support the castle and the city of Feinthresh.” Gwistain shook his head and motioned Groush to lead on. “Come. The valley may not be long, but threading our way through it will take time.”

  TRISTAN LIFTED A WRINKLED foot from the water and examined the chafed skin and burst blisters. For the first time in nearly a month he was clean, though the hot water and soap stung the broken skin on his feet. His scalp tingled from the vigorous scrubbing he had given his hair, and his cheeks felt strange after the application of a razor.

  A knob set into the marble tub lifted a plug in the deepest part of the basin, through which dirty water drained away. Thinking back to Gwistain’s explanation of how the walls separating the fields outside the city were economical, he supposed there might be an efficient use for bathwater – perhaps to flush away foulness in the castle’s garderobes.

  Never had he imagined such luxury as what surrounded him; the descriptions of wealth in Dougan’s adventure stories did not compare to the reality. He would never have known such a place existed except as a dot on a map and dry text in a book had he stayed in Dorishad. With a plush towel wrapped around his hips, he wiped away condensed moisture from a window and reflected on their arrival in Feinthresh.

  Like the villages they had passed, the city was laid out in an efficient grid. Broad flagstone streets separated buildings which grew ever larger the closer they drew to the looming castle. Circular plazas had been built where streets intersected, with benches shaded by fruit trees for those who lingered. Flagstones sloped down to steel grates set into the plaza centers, providing drainage to sewers hidden beneath the streets.

  He wondered what had inspired the Anahari to develop such a system. Anthoun had told him how the sewage was tossed into the street to be washed away by the rains or melting snows in most cities. Not so with Feinthresh, nor any of the villages through which they passed. Each house, even those of the commoners, must have some means of disposing of night waste; he suspected the castle must somehow connect to those same sewers.

  His thoughts turned to Jayna, as they so often did of late. Someday he would show her there was more to the world than Dorishad and Dresden Township, though she doubted she would care much for the Anahari despite the city’s beauty. Unlike the villagers he had seen, the people of Feinthresh were of higher caste and refinement. They looked upon Gwistain and Tristan with curiosity, and Groush with outright disgust.

  The hair on his nape rose as he entered the bedchamber, and the muscles in his shoulders tensed. He was familiar with the sensation of being watched, but unlike the innumerable times he had felt it in Dorishad, no one could see him. He felt like one of the insects he had examined as a child, using one of those strange, curved glasses Anthoun possessed to magnify small details.

  It was neither a welcoming nor hostile sensation. His eyes swept the room as he dropped the towel over the arm of a comfortable-looking divan.

  A stylized female bust stood in a shallow alcove set in the wall opposite the window, and he recognized Ankara’s aristocratic features despite alterations to the lines of the face. Smooth marble eyes stared at him, their lack of detail disturbing. An oil painting set in a gilded frame hung over the bed, depicting a wild hunt. Six pale-skinned women rode black horses, each bearing a bow or spear as they drove animals before them. After a moment, he realized that the animals were not the usual prey – a bear fled alongside a wolf and a cougar, while a dragon lay dead and trampled beneath the horses’ hooves. Other animals were obscured by the setting, merging with the trees and plants so artfully that it was impossible to tell where the beasts ended and the vegetation began.

  The longer he stared at the painting, the more eyes he found staring back. The impression left his skin feeling clammy and too tight. Back turned to the painting and the marble bust, he scrubbed his hands across his arms to rid himself of his discomfort.

  Chapter 23

  Night had not yet fallen, though the sun had disappeared behind the mountains. The sky through the window outside his chamber door darkened toward indigo, and the failing light deepened the gray veins shot through the hallway’s marble walls. Tristan could see the city’s outskirts from his vantage, where the windows in the distant buildings glowed with candlelight.

  “You should not wander unescorted,” Sathra’s said from behind him. “The halls can be disorienting to those unfamiliar with them and become more so after night has fallen.”

  The youth turned toward the young woman emerging from the gathering shadows, carrying a white taper burning in a silver candlestick. He dipped a slight bow. “Forgive me. I had no intention of wandering. I didn’t know if a servant would be coming to escort me, nor when to expect one.”

  “My mistress prefers to dine late. She is very particular about certain things.” The noblewoman set her candle on the table outside Tristan’s door and brushed her fingers against the hem of his half cape. “You put this on wrong. Will you allow me to adjust it?”

  He nodded and stood still as the young woman’s long, slender fingers undid the thick velvet cord around his throat. He realized the coloring of her gown both contrasted and complimented his outfit. Her black, high-collared shirt made her skin glow like moonlight, contrasting his own white silk. A blood-red velvet gown clung to her slender torso, the skirts flaring from gold buckled black belt – foiling the midnight blue of his sleeveless knee-length tunic and silver-buckled belt. His clothing bore plackets and piping of silvery satin where her gown bore gold trim; embroidered gold vines in her clothing's borders answered the silver roses stitched into the trim of his cape.

  Sathra draped the black velvet cloth over his left shoulder, looping the thick cord under his right arm. He caught glimpses of white satin lining her sleeves as she moved around him, the color complementing the black velvet of his britches.

  A sweet yet spicy perfume lingered as she smoothed the cape across his chest and stepped back. “Now you are dressed as a proper Anahari gentleman, save for the braided queue. Our men prefer to wear their hair loose. Does it have any significance in your lands?”

  The question made him uncomfortable, and he rolled his shoulders back to recover his poise. “It depends on the situation. I was unsure of the proper way to wear it and thought this would be best. Should I undo it?”

  “It suits you. You have prominent cheekbones, and they are shown off well this way,” she said as she collected her candle. She slipped her hand through his elbow as she stepped to his right side. “Shall we?”

  Sathra guided Tristan down the hallway, her candle a weak pool of radiance in the darkness. He soon understood her caution against wandering; the inner halls were a maze of corridors, seeming longer and more numerous than they should be so high in the castle. The occasional candelabra scattered through the halls shed their light, deepening the shadows stretching between them. Without the subtle pull of her fingers or the occasional murmured direction, Tristan knew he would be quite lost.

  White tapers burning in silver branches framed a set of double doors at the end of one hall. Two servants curtsied as they approached, similar enough in appearance to be sisters. One took Sathra’s candle as the other turned the doors’ ornate handles.

  Tristan caught his breath. A glass-covere
d stone span stretched from the keep toward the towering mountain face, creating a suspended greenhouse garden. The air was pleasantly warm, heavy with rich perfumes rising from the rows of plants growing in tiered flowerbeds and planters. Through the arched glass, he saw stone channels running toward the keep that he guessed watered the castle – an assumption borne out by the gurgle in the pipes irrigating the greenhouse.

  Sathra led him into the sheltered garden. He could no longer see the windows forming the walls for the vegetation's thickness within a few steps.

  The garden’s variety was astounding. Planters stood at the greenhouse’s entrances, filled with bushes sporting clusters of delicate white flowers with the faintest blush of pink. Other ceramic pots and long flowerbeds grew stands of thin-branched shrubs, their limbs covered in chains of six-leaved flowers that were white at the tips but darkened to a soft green pistil crowned by yellow knobs. Ragwort he recognized from Karilen’s herb garden. An irrigation system fed pools in which several varieties of lilies grew; around these grew plants with broad, waxy leaves and five-leafed white flowers the likes of which he had never seen.

  Tristan did not have long to examine his surroundings as Sathra led him into a stand of small trees growing in planters, the thin limbs dripping strands of vivid yellow flowers. A table stood in the heart of the strange garden, set for four with delicate plates, crystal glasses, and polished silver utensils. “What is this place?”

  “Do you not have greenhouses back home?”

  “They are nothing like this. Some flowers, but mostly herbs and berries.”

  “Those herbariums are down in the castle baileys. This is her grace’s private garden.” Sathra swept her hand at their surroundings. “My lady is interested in plants and their uses, and collected much that is here when she was young. She has quite the talent for horticulture.”

  Tristan stopped behind a chair and folded his hands behind his back. Sathra glided to the opposite side of the table and mirrored his pose. “It’s interesting she would choose to dine in the garden.”

  “Why? It is a beautiful setting. Soon enough the snows will come, and servants will labor to keep this greenhouse warm. It will become impossible for my lady to enjoy her garden in comfort and peace.” She rested her hands on the back of her chair. “Her grace does your lord, and you, a great honor by allowing you to enjoy one of her private sanctums. It is a place few ever see. Would you rather a cold, formal dining hall over such a place as this?”

  He shook his head and kept his mouth closed; he was ill-prepared for a conversation such as this and knew it. Sweat stung his freshly shaved upper lip as beads formed along his hairline. He resolved to remain silent until Gwistain arrived to provide cues about what to say and do, lest he give insult or reveal himself to be a country bumpkin. The young woman led the conversation where she wished while he babbled like a simpleton.

  Sathra’s carmine-darkened lips curved as she studied him with kohl-edged eyes, as though she found his silence amusing. He stared back and tried not to lock his knees.

  Daylight bled away as they waited, leaving her face and neck floating like the moon in verdant gloom. He recalled some of the more suggestive chapters of Dougan’s adventure stories, where the adventurer met a beautiful young woman in dark gardens. Rather than finding himself aroused by being alone with Sathra, he wished Gwistain would arrive and rescue him from his awkward situation.

  Footsteps approached. Tristan felt as though a weight lifted from his chest as Sathra’s ice blue eyes turned away from him. Following her gaze, he saw Gwistain’s tall shape clad in white and gold brocade accompanying Ankara's shorter silhouette in deep green. The two royals paused, backlit by candles carried by a pair of serving women.

  Sathra sank into a deep curtsy, prompting Tristan to dip into a bow.

  “Forgive the lateness, but I dislike dining in the gardens before the sun has set. Doing so steals away a sense of mystery,” Ankara said, her voice emerging with a purring quality. She slipped her hand from Gwistain’s forearm and preceded him toward the table. Lace trailing from her elbow-length sleeves fell back as she lifted her hands to shoulder height with a languid flourish.

  Tristan gripped the back of his chair as his vision filled with swirling sparkles. He sucked a deep breath, thinking he had locked his knees and forgotten to breathe, and realized what he witnessed was not imagined. Small globes of brilliant golden light no larger than his thumbnail danced through the garden to nestle into the bells of flowers and acquire their hue. More motes rose through the foliage overhead to settle where the frames holding the glass panes crossed.

  In some impossible way, the garden transformed into a tunnel of soft light and twisted shadows.

  Ankara folded her hands at her waist as she looked at Tristan with concern. The emeralds of her necklace glittered with green fire, reflecting the light around her. “Dear me, are you taken ill? You have gone rather queer in the face.”

  Tristan found Gwistain’s face hovering over Ankara’s shoulder. The prince’s brows lowered over hard eyes as his lips turned downward. Tristan shook his head and brought his eyes back to Ankara’s. “I am well. Just hungry, I think.”

  The grand duchess nodded, her lips curling in a smile as the servant women moved past her to light the candles on the table. “Of course. It is so rare that we have men as young as you for dinner. One could almost forget the appetites of a young body. Fortunately, this is one hunger we can assuage. Shall we dine?”

  Gwistain moved past Ankara to pull out her chair, and Tristan followed suit for Sathra. As they sat across from the ladies, the grand duchess rang a small silver bell before turning her sapphire eyes on the youth. “Tell me, young man – how do you find your chambers?”

  “They are lovely, Your Grace,” he said, trying to be subtle about watching Gwistain for cues on how he should sit. A moment after the prince took a napkin from the table and laid it in his lap Tristan followed suit. “I have to admit, the plumbing I have seen is impressive.”

  “Do you not have such in your chambers at Caer Ravvos?” Sathra asked. “Perhaps I take the luxuries we have for granted, but I would think the room assigned to a prince’s squire would have such facilities. Or do you share chambers with your lord?”

  Uncertain how to answer the question, heat crept up Tristan’s neck.

  “As I mentioned when we first arrived, Tristan is new to my service,” Gwistain interjected, sipping water from the crystal glass beside his plate. “We have not yet returned to Caer Ravvos since I collected him from his family’s estate. He will, of course, have chambers adjacent to my own.”

  “Does your family estate have such plumbing, young man?” Ankara asked, leaning back as the servants approached. Plates of fresh-cut vegetables and fruits were placed before Ankara and Sathra, while trays of meats and cheeses were set before Gwistain and Tristan.

  “Nothing as fine as what I have seen here, Your Grace,” the youth said, catching the slight nod Gwistain gave him from the corner of his eye. Deciding the less said the better, he turned his eyes to the tray in front of him. His stomach gurgled as the scents of roasted and spiced meat bathed his face. Again, he caught the older man's subtle movement and took a two-tined silver fork in hand. Mimicking the prince’s movements, he speared a round cut of meat and a thin slice of white cheese.

  Ankara and Sathra inspected him from beneath lowered eyelids, critiquing each of his movements. Sweat beaded beneath his collar as heat rose in his armpits. Oddly, Tristan found Duke Riand’s complete disregard and dismissal preferable to their subtle assessment.

  Having passed their appraisal – or so he hoped – he focused his attention on holding different utensils in an approximation of Gwistain’s ease as the servants presented various courses. Honey roasted hams, shredded turkey, coney broiled in herbs, trout fillets, and salmon sautéed in spiced wines were laid before him. Honey glazed fruits and vegetable sprays, accompanied by dipping sauces presented in small crystal bowls, alternated with the meat sel
ections. No serving alone was enough to be filling.

  What Ankara and the prince spoke of seemed trivial compared to the meal’s exotic richness. Through it all the servant women came and went in silence, exchanging used plates for fresh and refilling crystal glasses with mulled wine.

  Sathra’s attention remained fixed on him as the meal progressed, her pale irises darkened by the night as she stared at him. She lounged in her chair, somehow making what had to be an uncomfortable position with her gown’s boning appear artless and languid. The forefinger of her left hand smoothed a bead of wine around the lip of her wineglass; she toyed with a strand of her dark hair with her right, curling it around her knuckles and stroking it against her cheek.

  “I thank you for indulging the courtesies, my lord, but you did not come to Anahar to dine and speak pleasantries.” Ankara cradled her crystal wineglass in her palm and leaned back in her chair as she stared across the table at Gwistain. “You have spoken my House’s watchword, and I would know what your father would have of me.”

  The prince laid his utensils aside and laced his fingers together on the table. “You are no doubt aware of the troubles brewing in Troppenheim.”

  The grand duchess leaned back in her chair and swirled the wine in her glass as she studied the prince. “That depends on the troubles to which you refer. Troppenheim is a troubled nation with a weak king and petty nobles. Fortunately, they have little care for the territory we have taken in the foothills beyond our border. Unless you are bringing news my ambassadors are not?”

  “I am not. The troubles of which I speak have Merid at their root.”

  “Unsurprising. When the dogs start barking, it is either because their master has been neglectful or incited it.” A lock of raven hair spilled over Ankara’s bare white shoulder as she sipped her wine and set the glass on the table. “If you are asking whether the frenzy in the north has aught to do with the Hegemony of Ravvos, I fear you have come a long way for no answer – and wasted the boon I granted your family those many years ago.”