Orphan: Book One: Chronicles of the Fall

by Lee Ramsay

  “I wouldn’t waste your time with such a simple question. Nevertheless, you have touched a portion of the reason for which I am here. My lord father is aware Anahar and Merid were once aligned.”

  “Once,” Ankara said, the word flat and heavy.

  “The high king is concerned he might find armies on two fronts, should Merid call upon Anahar if and when hostilities resume between Troppenheim and the Hegemony of Ravvos,”

  “I have little inclination to help Terador with his games. Anahar does not maintain a sizable standing army. You have little cause to worry about an assault from the east should war come to your northern border.”

  Gwistain sipped his wine, the delicate crystal hanging between thumb and forefinger. “You may not maintain a sizable army, but each House maintains its own men-at-arms. It would not take long to field a sizable force should you call on them to answer their oaths of fealty.”

  Ankara leaned forward. “Has Anahar interfered in the politics of Western Celerus in the past four hundred years? Have we once fielded a detachment of soldiers, even when asked by Tenegath of Troppenheim for aid?”

  “The answer would be no to the first question.”

  “To the second as well. Western Celerus does not concern me, nor does it concern the Houses of Anahar. You came through the Borgha Pass; there is but a dirt road there. To the north, the Rogha Pass remains guarded but with no major road. Had I designs to project my influence into Western Celerus, would I not have improved both? Would I leave my borders guarded by men-at-arms of the marches?”

  Tristan glanced between the two nobles as they stared across the table at each other. The friendliness with which they treated each other throughout the meal vanished behind political masks – civil, but with a different tone and timbre. He had become a non-entity, too low in rank and station for consideration. He took no offense; what he witnessed was politics at a different level than he had encountered with Duke Riand. That had been a deliberate snub intended as an insult to Anthoun; this was a matter bearing the weight of nations.

  Sathra stared at him still, her lips curved in that strange, smirking smile she had been wearing since he met her. Her simple emerald pendant glittered as she shifted position, its silver setting reflecting the candlelight. Tristan had the distinct impression she followed his every thought. He also suspected her attendance was more than a courtesy extended to the grand duchess’s kinswoman, though he could not puzzle out how.

  The long moment of silence broke as Gwistain sat back in his chair with a shake of his head. “No.”

  “No,” Ankara said, leaning back in her seat as well. “An agreement was reached during the Council of Mytoos. Beyond a certain amount of trade, Anahar’s focus is on the south and east, not the west. As I recall, I signed a treaty promising as much. I do keep my word.”

  “No offense intended, but that is in part what concerns my lord father. How are we to know you did not give your word to Seban Terador to come to his aid should he call?”

  “Have we not established that I have not bestirred myself westward in more than four centuries?”

  “Just because you have not does not mean you would not.”

  Ankara lifted her eyebrows. “You are a bold one to question my word in my own home. What, pray tell, gives you such cheek?”

  “The presence of the Horned Knight.”

  The grand duchess froze, her pale features as sharp and brittle as the crystal wineglass she held. “I believe I hear an intimation being made.”

  Gwistain ran his tongue across his teeth as he considered his words. When he spoke again, he did so pointedly yet with tact. “Your experimentation with modifying the physicality of individuals is not unknown. In fact, the whole of Anahar is an experiment in selective breeding. According to the documents my father showed me, it is also known that the Dushken rose from similar breeding programs under your direction.”

  “What of it?”

  “If it had not been for the alteration of the Dushken beyond what breeding alone could manifest, we would not be having this conversation.”

  Ankara rose with deliberate slowness. Her voice was glacial as she stared down at the prince. “I had nothing to do with the creation of the Horned Knight. My work is elegant and requires generations to create. I find the comparison insulting, as a physician would find being likened to a butcher.”

  Gwistain rose as well. “My lord father has asked me to apologize if his questions offend. However, the knowledge to do what has been done is beyond the ken of any in the Hegemony of Ravvos, Troppenheim, or Caledorn.”

  Tristan understood a fraction of what they discussed, but there was no mistaking the insult on Ankara’s features. Gwistain’s face expressed nothing but confidence as he stared at the grand duchess. He spied a flicker of amusement cross Sathra’s face as she, too, rose to her feet. Uncertain what was happening but recognizing the meal was over, he laid his napkin on the table and stood as well.

  “Come, Sathra. I find the company this evening has soured,” Ankara said as the tension stretched taut. One elegant eyebrow rose as her blue eyes bored into Gwistain’s. “Perhaps tomorrow Prince Gwistain will remember the diplomatic niceties of not insulting his hostess.”

  Emerald skirts rustled as the grand duchess swept away from the table with Sathra close on her heel. The garden doors closed behind the two women. The servants remained, giving them privacy but staying nearby should the guest need them.

  Silence stretched in the gloom.

  Gwistain slumped into his chair with a groan and draped his knee over the arm as he wedged his spine into the seat’s corner. He glanced up as the motes of light hidden in the branches and flowers faded and gestured for the youth to sit. “That went both better and worse than expected. You no doubt have questions.”

  Tristan rested his elbows on the table and tried to keep the awed tone in his voice from sounding half-witted. “She is as you say.”

  The prince glowed with amusement as he swirled his wine. “I should be offended you needed to see for yourself rather than take my word, but I suppose I can’t blame you. She is rather impressive, as is her young lady-in-waiting. Sathra certainly caught your attention, which I believe is the intent.”

  “She makes me uncomfortable. I feel like a bug she is examining.”

  “You are. Ankara does not trust that I am here for the reasons I claim. Our story of you being my squire, while plausible, strains credulity. Beautiful the young woman may be and stunning Ankara certainly is, but you look on them both as though you have never seen a woman before.” The prince lifted the wine bottle of wine and poured, filling his glass and Tristan’s. “Have you ever heard the expression ‘having a glass face?’”

  “No.”

  “It means nearly every thought you have appears on your face – not the specifics, but your reactions are rather obvious.” Gwistain set the bottle on the table. “I will give you credit for handling Ankara’s display as well as you did, but your physical reaction showed the lie of your words. However, your remarks about the plumbing...”

  “What about them?”

  “It’s not something a well-born person would consider. Fortunately, our explanation of you coming from a rural estate provides some excuse for your lack of polish.” The prince took a drink of his wine. “I understand they put you in the servants’ quarters on the other side of the keep from my own, which are on the same floor as the royal residence. I dislike the separation.”

  “They are trying to keep us separated so they can catch us in a lie,” Tristan said, a mix between statement and question.

  Gwistain nodded and rubbed his hand over his lips, his trimmed beard rasping against his palm. “I need you to become better at deceit with haste. The use of Ankara’s watchword has bought us a measure of safety, but it also shows my purpose here runs deeper than my conversation over dinner has revealed.”

  Tristan toyed with his wine glass. “Why would such a thing matter?”

  “What, the watchword?
I think your ward father has done you a disservice in your education.” The nobleman drained his glass and set it aside. “It is an ancient custom in the oldest of Houses, going back to when our people resided in the Distant East, though few follow it anymore. Children of noble blood once had a geas – a type of enchantment – laid upon them at birth, which bound itself to the very fiber of the child’s flesh and spirit. It acts much like a password, allowing the noble access to different parts of an estate or the ability to undo certain locks. However, it also came with obligations and limitations. Any who spoke a House’s watchword could ask for certain things, such as shelter and protection.”

  “So the word you spoke when we first met Ankara was such a thing?”

  “You would do well to forget ever hearing it. As you might imagine, such a thing is given only to those to whom a great debt is owed. While speaking the word obligates Ankara to certain conditions, it also binds the speaker.”

  “In what way?”

  “Never you mind. Suffice to say, I am bound not to lie – which does not obligate me to tell our hostess the entirety of the truth. Unfortunately, that puts you center in her attentions. She no doubt thinks you will reveal something she wants to know.”

  A chill swept over Tristan as he pieced together observations made since meeting Gwistain and Groush, and he sagged in his seat. “You never had any intention of sending me back to Dorishad, or allowing Groush to break my legs and leave me where you found me.”

  “I wouldn’t have allowed Groush to break your legs. Doing so would have made your freezing to death or starving a certainty. I’m not a monster.”

  “But you are using me.”

  The prince gave a humorless snort and drained the last of the wine bottle into his glass. “I may not be a monster, but I am a politician. I had been wondering how to approach Ankara, and you stumbled into my camp like an answer to a prayer – albeit not quite what I would ordinarily pray for. You are a bit tall and masculine for my appetites.”

  “So, you’ve told me enough to be a distraction. They will try to figure out who I am and what I know, believing I am too young and naïve to recognize what they are doing, while you do...what?”

  “I’m afraid I cannot say – not because you don’t deserve to know, but rather because it is better if you don’t.”

  “For whom?”

  The prince leaned back in his chair and shook his forefinger at Tristan. “You’re a little young to be so cynical.”

  Chapter 24

  Though the door to his suite was bolted and the rooms were empty, Tristan felt as though someone was watching him. He could not deny what he had seen in the garden. If Ankara was able to create light with a wave of the hand, he reasoned she might be able to watch him as well.

  The idea disturbed him enough to drape his tunic over the marble bust in his bedchamber as he undressed. The carved face resembled the grand duchess too much for his comfort. Foolish notion that it was, he felt better for doing so.

  Tucked into the silk sheets, the down mattress and pillows luxuriantly soft around him, he lay wakeful. Accustomed to Dorishad’s manor house creaking and settling throughout the night, he found the stillness and silence oppressive. The keep was even quieter than it had been during the day. Unable to escape the feeling of being watched in the bedchamber, he tucked himself into one of the sitting room’s divans and stared at the banked fire’s smoldering embers until he slipped into a fitful doze.

  A sharp rap on the door startled him awake, leaving him confused as he tried to recall where he was. Morning sunlight streamed through the windows, turning the marble walls golden. He rubbed his eyes when the knock came again. Blanket wrapped around his shoulders, he rose and threw open the bolt on the door.

  “Still abed?” Sathra asked with amusement as she pushed her way into the room. A rich, spicy scent lingered as she brushed past him. “You look as though you hardly slept.”

  “The food was richer than I expected,” he lied, covering his yawn with his hand.

  “I am sorry to hear that.”

  Tristan gave her a curious look. She wore a black leather corset with silver fittings similar to the one she wore when he first met her; the short-waisted velvet coat she wore over it was elegant in its simplicity. A narrow-brimmed black hat perched at an angle on her mahogany hair, and the silver hatpin holding it in place matched the hairpins fastening her high bun. An emerald chip gleamed on the head of each pin.

  Sathra gave him as frank a look as he gave her. “Her Grace the Grand Duchess suggested you might be interested in seeing the city of Feinthresh. She and your lord will be in conference most of the day. Her grace’s servants shall attend them, freeing you of your duties.”

  He shifted his blanket as her eyes ran down the length of his throat. “Surely you have better things to do.”

  “On the contrary. You are a guest of the royal house of Anahar, squire to a Prince of the Blood for the Hegemony of Ravvos,” Sathra said as she made her way toward the bedchamber, her bootheels clicking against the bathing chamber’s tiled floor. “Lovely as the castle is, it can be dreadfully dull lurking within it – especially with autumn arriving and the snows not long behind.”

  Discomfited by the way she invited herself into the room, Tristan followed in her wake. “I haven’t washed or dressed for the day, nor have I eaten.”

  “I have taken the liberty of instructing the servants to prepare breakfast for us both,” Sathra said, pausing in the bedchamber’s doorway. Her eyebrow rose when her gaze landed on his tunic draped over the marble bust, but she turned toward the wardrobe without comment. “Let us choose something appropriate to wear, shall we? It will be a bit of time before our meal is prepared.”

  “With respect,” Tristan said as she ran her hands over the clothing the servants had placed in the wardrobe the previous night, “but I believe I can dress.”

  “I am certain you can,” Sathra said, then paused. She placed her fingers to her lips to muffle a soft laugh and brushed past him. “How rude of me. I woke you before you had a chance to...I will let you tend to your morning ablutions, shall I, and wait for you in the sitting room? Do wear the black and russet; it will complement your coloring.”

  Tristan watched her glide through the bathing chamber and close the sitting room doors behind her. His uneasiness returned, made more potent at the thought of being separated from Gwistain while in the city. There had been no mention of Groush, either. He resolved to ask the Sathra whether he might be able to visit the dour Hillffolk.

  He suspected the answer would be no.

  TRISTAN HAD BEEN OVERWHELMED by the city’s size and the castle's looming presence on first arriving. His second trip through Feinthresh was no less impressive. However, with Sathra at his side, he was both more and less aware of the curious stares cast in his direction. Belatedly, he realized the looks were not for his unusual coloring or height. The Anahari ignored him beyond the occasional curious glance but regarded Sathra with a mix of awed respect and nervous tension.

  Out of the castle’s muted light, Sathra proved paler than he first thought; shaded by the three-story buildings and autumn-tinged trees, her skin shone like freshly fallen snow. Her emerald and ebony clothing intensified her pallor, revealing a web of faint blue veins beneath her skin. She concealed her hands from view with gloves of butter-soft black leather to protect against the sun.

  “How do you produce such rich colors?”

  “A curious question, and not one I expected.”

  “My family deals in textiles, so I know a bit about it,” he said, plucking the burnt umber velvet and black leather of his belted long vest. “The cost to dye so deeply is prohibitive. Most people wear bleached or natural tones rather than vibrant shades. Since I arrived in Anahar, though, I’ve noticed even the commoners wear saturated colors.”

  “You rely on plant dyes, yes? What grows near your home?” She smiled when Tristan nodded. “I am unfamiliar with the process, but I can tell you that much of the dye
you see come from the sultanates to our east; through them, we receive trade from other parts of the continent. Our use of color is not merely one of enjoyment. In conjunction with the fabric and cut, it is integral to the way that we identify our role in society.”

  “Your commoners wear thicker woolens and coarser leathers.”

  “As is appropriate for their station and work. As you may have noticed, certain professions use different colors – charcoal for the smiths, for instance, or a certain shade of green for our physicians. Each profession, caste, and House has its own combination of colors and patterns. Additionally, each person wears the colors of their patron’s House. This shade of emerald, for example, is reserved for House Sheran, Ankara’s own.”

  “Do the cut of your gown, coat, and corset indicate caste?”

  “In part. It would take much time to detail the nuance.”

  “Yet last night you wore red, and in a different design.”

  “Rank has its privileges. Surely your lord does not wear the same outfit every day?” She slipped her hand through his elbow, the leather warm through the white silk sleeve. “The shade I wore to dine is the color of my own House, Sheranath. Her grace permitted me to represent my own family. If you are interested, I could show you the textile quarter.”

  Sathra explained the city’s organization as she led him through the streets. Feinthresh’s eastern quarters held the homes of those who worked the fields, orchards, and various food markets. Artisans dwelled in the western quarters; he had seen shops for goldsmiths and silver workers when he arrived, but there were studios for painters and sculptors as well as homes for more affluent families.

  Anahari nobility and gentry maintained their estates at the base of the switchback road leading to the castle; the grand houses were usually empty, save for the months between late autumn through early spring when the royal court was in session. The city’s population would soon swell with their presence, as well as their families and retinues of guards, retainers, and servants.