Orphan: Book One: Chronicles of the Fall

by Lee Ramsay

  The more he thought about it, the more Tristan became convinced the Anahari feared Sathra. Thinking back to Ankara’s use of magic at the previous night’s dinner, he suspected the younger noblewoman might possess the same gifts. Though his mind rebelled at the notion, it was the only conclusion that made sense.

  A sharp rap at the door startled him into a curse. He took a steadying breath as he slid the bolt free and turned the handle, then bowed deeply from the waist when he recognized his visitor.

  Ankara swept into the sitting room, the scent of cardamom warm and smoky in her wake. “Do forgive the intrusion. I am aware you sent a message to your lord that you had returned to the castle. I regret to inform you that Prince Gwistain has taken ill.”

  The hair on his arms rose beneath the white silk of the shirt as he straightened from his bow. “I appreciate being told, Your Grace. You did not need to deliver the news yourself.”

  “Nonsense. I fear his illness is my fault, at least in part. Did Sathra explain that we trade quite extensively with the desert kingdoms of the south?” She smiled when he nodded. “I wished to provide him with a meal prepared with seafood transported from coastal trade. There is a fish that is quite a delicacy; as you might imagine, it is rather difficult to transport ocean fish overland and keep them fresh enough to eat. This meal has the added danger that, if prepared incorrectly, it risks poisoning the person eating it.”

  Tristan swallowed around the dryness in his throat. “Will he be alright?”

  “In time. My best physicians are tending him as we speak. It would be a diplomatic incident should High King Mathonis’ son die while guesting under my roof. Wars have started for far, far less.” The grand duchess’ sapphire eyes were heavy-lidded as she approached him. Her emerald pendant’s intricate facets caught the failing daylight as it rose and fell on her breast. “As you have been deprived of your lord and I my royal guest’s company, I thought perhaps you might join me for dinner. No fish, of course, given the unfortunate incident earlier today.”

  Sweat sprang to the youth’s upper lip as he looked down at her. “That is kind of you, but surely you have better things to do than eat with a squire.”

  “As I said before, it is far too rare that young men come to call. My days and nights are consumed by state affairs, couched in flowery words spoken by old men and women representing their Houses’ interests. Why, politics overshadow even the novelty of entertaining a Prince of Ravvos and his squire.” The leather of Ankara’s corset creaked with her breathing as the small woman within arm’s reach of him. Her lips parted, the deep carmine making her perfect teeth shine brilliantly. “Having a young man to dine would be a simple, and welcome, pleasure.”

  Heated by her skin and wafting from the chignon of her raven black hair, the smoky oils she wore made Tristan's head grow light. Something instinctive reminded him that he dealt with a woman centuries older than he, even as his body reacted with a mix of fear and arousal. “I’m afraid you may find my conversation dull. I’m not that interesting.”

  The elegant arch of the noblewoman’s eyebrow rose as she studied him. “I doubt that. It is a rarity for me to discuss how people find the order of Anahar. Born and raised in the culture I created, my people seldom give it a second thought; even if they did, they would not speak of it even if their lives depended on doing so. The desert nations provide a similar dilemma; though cultured in their own way, I am unlikely to hear the truth from ambassadors wishing to establish or refine treaties.”

  “You want my impressions?”

  “The Hegemony is not as advanced as Anahar, but it does have a similar cultural foundation.” Ankara rolled her shoulder in a slight shrug, which added a coquettishness to her refined beauty. “Have you much experience with artisans, young man?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “We have an abundance of them. You learn through dealings with such people that all artisans need an audience – and critics. Anahar is my masterpiece; I would have the honest words of a young man over a pleasant, private meal.” The corners of her lips curled upward. “I shall accept no refusal.”

  “Then you shall have none, Your Grace.”

  Ankara’s eyelids grew heavy as she drifted past him to lay her hand on the door handle. She lingered in the open doorway and ran her eyes across him in a way that made his skin prickle. “A servant shall collect you within the hour. Do wear something flattering.”

  TRISTAN BOWED AS HIS escorting servant curtsied and left him alone in a long, windowless room. Candelabra carved to resemble leafless, silver-barked trees glowed with floating candles hung in blown-glass bells. Black-veined marble columns framed the mirrors, rising to the shadows collecting in the vaulted ceiling's crowns. The parquet floor, cut from dark wood, gleamed black in the candlelight.

  Mirrors covered most of the walls, filling the gaps between the supporting columns. Infinities of himself were reflected at him no matter where he turned, oddly shadowed by the candlelight. The experience was vertiginous, each echo of himself hanging suspended in gloom and imprisoned in stone. In his reflection, he looked older than his years. Candlelight picked out sun-bleached strands in his auburn hair and gave them a white cast, and his green eyes glittered over cheeks which appeared hollowed out. The deep blue of his sleeveless, knee-length tunic appeared black in the soft light, the broad trim along the edges embroidered with silver thread to match the platinum silk of his high-collared shirt. Silver buttons engraved in complex knot patterns closed his tunic, their embossed pattern identical to the buckle of the broad black belt wrapping his waist.

  His eyes turned to the room’s remaining feature. Black wrought iron chairs shaped in a complex weave and supporting emerald cushions surrounded a long table draped in cream silk. Delicate crystal plates and glasses had been set at the table’s head and the seat immediately to the right, with a bottle of wine chilling in a crystal basin filled with crushed ice.

  Wondering where they had gotten the ice, Tristan turned as the dining chamber’s doors opened with a click. His jaw sagged open before he remembered himself, and he lowered his eyes as he bowed.

  “An excellent choice in cut and color,” Ankara purred as she drew close. Her form-fitting black satin gown clung to her curved hips and slender waist and glistened like light caught in oil. The low-cut neck was almost scandalous and heightened the flawless translucence of her skin. Crossed silver hair sticks pinned her raven hair high on her skull, the style emphasizing the slender length of her throat. Emerald studs surrounded by diamonds decorated her earlobes, matching the ever-present emerald pendant glittering on her breast.

  Tristan took her gloved hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles. “You servants arrived with the outfit after you departed. At your direction, I presume.”

  She laced her hands in front of her hips as she ran a critical eye over him. “I am told you arrived with naught but leathers and woolens. I assumed a prince’s squire would possess better clothing, but it appears I was incorrect. Anahari style suits you, as do the bold colors.”

  “Thank you for loaning them to me. They are among the finest things I have ever worn.”

  Ankara brushed past him to the head of the table and waited. He realized she expected him to pull her chair out, and hurried to do so before taking his seat.

  “I apologize for not speaking with you sooner,” she said as she lifted a silver bell set to the left of her plate. A clear note sang out, echoing from the walls and ceiling. “I believed it essential to meet with your lord directly and learn what business was so pressing it required his presence and the use of my House’s watchword. Your arrival was unanticipated, but I must admit a degree of curiosity when I learned you and your companions crossed my border – a curiosity further piqued when I first saw you.”

  “You were expecting us?”

  “You sound surprised. One cannot rule if one is unaware of what transpires in her domain.” Her gaze did not waver as the doors opened. A pair of serving women carried crystal bowl
s of steaming water and set them at their elbows. “I was aware you and your companions were coming to Feinthresh almost from the moment you crossed the River Ossifor.”

  Tristan watched as she removed her gloves and set them in her lap. He mimicked the way she rinsed her fingers in the steaming water and allowed the servant waiting at his side to dry his hands with a luxuriantly soft towel. “We saw no sign of guards, nor did we see any messengers.”

  Ankara smiled as her attending servant dried her hands. “This is a dinner for pleasure. You have my permission to call me by name or, if that is uncomfortable, you may address me as my lady.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “I would not expect you to be familiar with much of Anahar’s dynamics,” she said, ignoring her attending servant as the woman poured wine into her crystal glass. The liquid swallowed the candlelight, appearing black as the grand duchess sipped. “We do not often receive visitors from the west, beyond ambassadors and the occasional messenger. It is why I tasked Sathra to guide you through Feinthresh.”

  “I was most impressed, my lady,” Tristan said as his attendant filled his glass. “Your kinswoman was also quite informative about many things she showed me. Your people seem content and well provided for.”

  “Ours is an ancient people with a storied history, which we can trace back to our origins in the countries of the Distant East; we have much worth being proud of, despite some of the darker history and rumors. Trade with the desert realms and others have created vast opportunities for wealth, which I have ensured is applied for the betterment of all.” The grand duchess swirled her wine, then sipped. “Yet wealth and pride are a potent combination when combined with ambition. Even in the Hegemony, the wealthy and ambitious seek to better their station in life; your history is rife with internal unrest and political upheaval, matched only by its imperialist ambitions to dominate Western Celerus. Is that not so?”

  “It is indeed.”

  “Unlike the nations of Western Celerus, we Anahari are far more stable. There has not been a true rebellion in, oh, three hundred years. I cannot remember the last time there was an attempt to assassinate me.” She gestured the servants away with a flip of her hand. “For the ambitious, stability often resembles stagnation.”

  “A society that does not grow and change stagnates and dies.”

  Ankara’s eyebrows rose high on her forehead. “I see you have read the philosophies of Mercault.”

  Tristan sipped his wine before setting the glass beside his plate. “Not much of his work, my lady. His writings were wordy and tended to put me to sleep.”

  “Not many outside centers of learning know of him,” Ankara said thoughtfully. She studied him for a moment, her intensity making him a trifle uncomfortable. “In essence, he is correct. Change is essential in maintaining stability, which is why my people are educated and evaluated no matter their caste. Even so, the ambitious must be monitored lest they unbalance the whole; thus, little happens of which I am unaware.”

  “If I may be so bold, would it be possible for me to see Groush tomorrow?” Tristan asked with some hesitation as the doors to the dining room opened, admitting the servants pushing carts bearing the first course of their meal.

  “Your Hillffolk companion is being tended in an estate outside the city. I can ill afford the disruption one such as he could cause, were he to lose the veneer of civilization and attack my people. I will ensure he receives word that you and Gwistain may be detained.”

  He did not miss the dismissive tone in her voice. “Forgive me, my lady, but I have not seen him since we arrived. Perhaps I might be allowed to go and see him? It would allow me to see more of your country.”

  “He will be informed of your situation,” Ankara said, a faint line forming between her eyebrows. Tristan understood her voice's stern tone, having heard it from Anthoun; the subject was closed. She smoothed her features as the servants laid out dinner.

  Succulent juices dribbled across the plate of elk before him, blackened on the outside redder toward the center. His stomach rumbled as the scent of garlic, whisky, and spices rose from the meat. Yams, heavy with the scent of molasses, issued a soft cloud of steam. The servant placed another plate before him, this one covered with a white linen napkin; golden rolls beneath the fabric’s edge, squares of crumbly yellow flour drizzled with honey, and slices of black bread. A third plate, piled high with cheeses of different cuts, colors, and scents, occupied a space on the table next to a platter heaped with vegetables cooked in rich sauces.

  “You set a fine table.”

  “I thought a simple fare, rather than a procession of courses rich in flavor but short on being filling, would suit you best. Forgive my presumption, but I had a rather rustic impression when I first laid eyes upon you.”

  A servant placed a covered dish in front of the grand duchess as she laid her napkin across her lap. Her attention remained on the youth across the table from her as the lid was removed. Thin slices of pale meat slathered in a reddish-black paste steamed beside wedges of artichoke hearts. Without taking her eyes from him, she lifted a silver two-tined fork and knife from their place beside her plate and cut a bite of meat.

  Noting his curiosity as she chewed the morsel, she smiled and said, “I doubt you would enjoy what I am having, as the meat is...an acquired taste. A young man such as yourself needs far more energy than this will provide. Now please, do eat your fill.”

  Tristan took up his fork and knife and sawed into the meat. The combination of spices mixed with the elk’s greasiness melted as soon as it touched his tongue. Eyes closing, his chewing slowed as he groaned his appreciation. The cheeses had a slight bitterness which enhanced rather than spoiled the flavor. The breads and vegetables had the same quality despite the sweetness of both; he assumed the odd flavoring was some manner of seasoning added to the meal but did not ask about it for fear such a question might be perceived as rude.

  They ate in silence until he became aware of Ankara watching him with amusement. She had made little progress with her meal, whereas he had almost finished. He forced himself to swallow his mouthful as he flushed and set his silverware aside. “Your pardon, my lady. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “You are a healthy young man with an appetite to match. I would be offended if you were unimpressed with the work of my cooks.” Laying her fork and knife on the plate, the noblewoman held up her wineglass for a servant to refill. Black in the candlelight, the wine showed its redness as it gurgled into the glass. She swirled the glass and inhaled its bouquet before sipping. “How does the meal meet your liking?”

  “It’s a bit richer than prefer, but excellent.” His cheeks flushed as he realized how rude he sounded. “My lady, I must apologize—"

  “No need. It is an honest, if boorish, answer, which is what I was hoping for from our dining together.” Ankara settled back in her chair with the wineglass cradled between her fingers. The smile on her lips reminded him of how the barn cats looked when caught sampling unattended milking pails. “You are not eating. Are you not hungry?”

  “Not any longer, my lady.”

  “Resulting from your lapse in manners?”

  “Partly.” He lifted his napkin from where it lay beside his plate and wondered if he had failed some sort of test as he wiped the white linen across his lips. “If you’ll forgive my bluntness, I find your interest in me confusing.”

  The grand duchess gave a slow, low laugh as she set her wine glass on the table. “Oh, I think you are quite interesting. You see, I quite like games. The one Gwistain plays is amusing, if somewhat obvious. I must confess, however, that I prefer games of my making.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Amusement still lingered in her eyes though her voice hardened. “Do you not? You were meant to be a distraction – and how could you not be? I may not have traveled in the Hegemony of Ravvos for some time, but I make it my business to know the family lines of each noble House in all the lands of Western Celerus.”

>   “What of it?”

  “Genealogy is somewhat more than a pastime for me, as your prince no doubt told you,” Ankara said, wry amusement coloring her words. “You have seen for yourself how carefully bred the people of Anahar are. Despite similarities that have arisen through the generations, there are specific traits common within each family line. One family, as an example, has a particular shade of blue to their eyes that is nearly purple; every child of that line is born with it. Another family, the poor dears, has an unfortunate recurrence of a hair lip, while another is gifted with abnormally large ears.

  “There is probably not one person born in the whole of Anahar I cannot place to a family or know their general relations on sight.” Ankara propped her elbows on the table and laced her fingers beneath her chin. “While such attentiveness is essential to what I am attempting to achieve with my people, my interests in the family lines of the noble Houses of the Hegemony of Ravvos, Troppenheim, Caledorn, and the island nations are political. Can you guess why?”

  Tristan struggled against the compulsion of her steady, unblinking gaze. “If you know a person’s family, you know their politics.”

  “Excellent,” Ankara said, her tone droll. She parted her lips no more than a finger’s width, the tip of her tongue swiping along her full lower lip. “You resemble no family line with which I am familiar – and I make it my business to be familiar with any House of note. You are no nobleman’s son. Thus, you have become a distraction – albeit a small one – which Gwistain hopes to turn to his advantage as I attempt to puzzle out your identity.”

  “He wouldn’t do something like that.”

  “Such naiveté,” Ankara said with dry amusement. “Gwistain is a prince. More than anyone else, we royals exploit those beneath us to our advantage. It is human nature to do so; we have simply elevated it to an art.”