by Lee Ramsay
Soothed by the bard’s music, Tristan said nothing for a time. “Have you seen Groush or Brenna?”
“I haven’t seen Groush since we brought you to the Temple of Maponos,” Rathus said, letting the music fade as his fingers stilled. He shuddered, his eyes growing distant. “You know what happened, I’m assuming?”
“After I found a sword in my side? I have an idea.”
“We thought you not long for this world. I saw your face when the sword came through your belly,” the nobleman said, almost as though he had not heard Tristan. “You cut the Horned Knight’s arm – which is the reason I did not take the wound you suffered, I think. Brenna screamed; when I looked up, you were sliding off that bastard’s blade.
“I thought he had killed you with a single thrust, and the horned bastard turned to finish me off. Stomped my face in, and was readying to put his sword through my chest,” he added, his eyes glazed as though reliving the memory. “The next thing I know, Groush is there, bleeding from a dozen wounds and standing over both of us. I doubt he would have lasted long against the warlord and his men, but the ruckus we were causing drew a Troppenheim patrol. They buggered off when they saw the chariots coming. From what I gather, there have been more raids this far south over the past months, leading both Troppenheim and Ravvosi to patrol the river’s banks.”
“I vaguely remember something rattling and banging.”
Rathus nodded and gave the strings an idle strum. “It was Brenna who realized you were still breathing. I stayed behind so a chariot could bring you here and followed along when my head stopped throbbing. Once he knew you weren’t going to die, Groush left for Caer Ravvos.”
“You stayed?”
“The priests wouldn’t let me leave. I’d like to think it was because I was charming, but in truth, my nose was on my left cheek, and I couldn’t see with my eyes swollen shut. The bones in my face were cracked. It hurt like all hells for a week, but they finally let me go.” The nobleman smirked and shifted the harp guitar to a more comfortable position on his knee. “I used what I could earn with a borrowed lute to buy this, and set about making enough coin to fill my purse with a happy jingle. I return here to provide music. A fair trade for the tending they gave me, I think, and I enjoy playing for the sick and injured.”
“What about Brenna?”
“She weathered our little journey better than the rest of us – physically, at least. The priests wanted to keep us a bit longer to ensure we were well after running so far and eating too little for too long. When she learned there was a Cloister of Siranon in the city, she left for Caer Ravvos with Groush. I haven’t heard from her since.”
Tristan fell silent, listening to Rathus pluck out another progression. He knew little about the goddess Siranon beyond an understanding that her convents were closed to men. It was an ancient religion, predating the arrival of the Church of Vastor in the Hegemony. “I didn’t think there would be one of Siranon’s convents here.”
“There wouldn’t be, if the Ravvosi women hadn’t opposed the calls for closure by the Church. The priests met such hostility that they rethought their position; they claimed Siranon was a prophetess sent by their god, canonized her, and let her followers be.” The bard drew a warbling tone from a lower-pitched string with a pluck of his thumb. “Ironic, don’t you think, that a religion based on helping women oppressed by men is only tolerated after another religion has sublimated it?”
“It sounds like you don’t have much use for the Church of Vastor.”
“Of course not. They have torn down temples to other gods, defaced art, and destroyed texts to eradicate opposition. We Thorsbendi drove them from our lands when they tried to rewrite our history and culture; we’re a proud people, and an old one.” Rathus shrugged and plucked out a slow and somber tune. “I’m more offended by cultural destruction than the Vastorian belief in theological superiority, and cannot support a belief that allows others to suffer based on intolerant, myopic philosophy. If they had their way, you’d have been dead more than a fortnight; they have little tolerance for other faiths, no matter what their creed, which is why the Temple of Maponos is sited where it is.”
They spoke of other things, the bard’s fingers plucking out soothing tones that echoed through the halls. After a time, the nobleman set his instrument aside. “You will be returning to...where was it you said you were from again?”
“A hamlet called Dorishad,” Tristan said, wincing as he shifted to a more comfortable position. He ignored the chill coming through the glass and glanced into the central courtyard. The sun had slipped toward the horizon, ducking behind masses of gray-black clouds drifting in from the west. “We won’t leave until spring at the earliest.”
The bard pushed himself to his feet. “Then I shall come and see you again before you return home.”
“You’re leaving?”
“In a manner of speaking. I’m returning to Caer Ravvos. I need to go before the weather turns and I am caught. Besides, fame is a fleeting thing.” He held his hand out to Tristan with a smile and a wink. “There are not many people who have survived an encounter with the warlord called the Horned Knight. Soon every hackneyed, ham-fisted minstrel will exaggerate the tale and claim they fought the bastard single-handedly. I tell the tale better, and need to take what coin I can before my stories grow dull from repetition.”
Tristan levered himself to his feet with a grunt and took the other man’s hand. “I’m sure you’re getting more than coin from the stories, too.”
“After staring at you and Groush for the past two months, can you blame me?” Rathus laughed. He pulled Tristan close, wrapping an arm around the younger man’s shoulder in a hard hug. “Take care of yourself, my friend. I may not have been who you wanted Brenna to find in Feinthresh’s dungeons, but I am grateful for the mistake.”
Tristan ignored the pain in his side as he returned the embrace and swallowed the lump in his throat. “Thank you for staying with us. I’m not sure we would have survived if you hadn’t.”
“All I did was collect what Groush told me to, and tell a few stories.”
“You kept us from dwelling on our thoughts.”
Rathus took his harp guitar in hand with a tight smile. “Keep your ears open to rumors on the wind. Events are happening which will make for great stories – and I hope to be the one credited for telling them. Perhaps one day I will be famous enough to be heard of in Dorishad, even if such a backward place wouldn’t know a good instrument from a bad one.”
Tristan laughed. “We can hope.”
The bard paused as he turned away. “I almost forgot to ask. Have you heard the stories going ‘round about Prince Gwistain?”
“What stories? I had hoped to get to Caer Ravvos and tell them he is held in Anahar still, but...” he trailed off, gesturing at his side.
“It appears you won’t have to. He returned home in early spring.”
“Say that again, if you would?”
“Gwistain arrived by barge on the River Ossifor nine, maybe ten months ago,” Rathus said, slinging his guitar over his shoulder by its strap. “He has been leading Ravvosi knights across the river with High King Mathonis’ blessing, working with Troppenheim patrols to clear out Meridan raiders and hunt down packs of Dushken. He is making quite the name for himself, too, if half the stories can be believed.”
Chapter 74
“I don’t need the damned blanket,” Tristan said, glowering at Dougan.
“It’s hardly above freezing,” the veteran said with a frown of his own. “You heard the physicker; you need to stay warm. You ought to go back to your room and sleep some more.”
“Boredom, rather than my injuries, will kill me if I spend another day in bed.” Adjusting the wool blanket across his knees and tucking it beneath his thighs, Tristan grabbed the wheels on either side of his chair and pushed them forward. Leather stretched across the oak frame creaked with his shifting weight, the smaller wheels fastened to the chair’s front legs rattling a
s they bounced across the atrium’s uneven stones.
Wind from the overcast sky rattled the winter-bare trees and shrubs growing in tiered flowerbeds and planters throughout the open space. It was too cold, but he could not turn back after raising a fuss about wanting to be outdoors and threatening to hobble his way outside. The chill brought a flush to his cheeks and set a raw ache in his chest. Frustrated by his slow recovery, he hid the shortness of breath from Dougan’s watchful eyes as he wheeled himself through the atrium – a concession Alder made to his desire to move around.
“Why are you so angry?”
“Why? I haven’t seen Groush since he carried me here, or Brenna either. Rathus returned to Caer Ravvos, and I’m stuck in a damned chair in a temple twenty miles away. I almost died twice getting here, thinking to warn someone that Gwistain was held prisoner in Anahar. Now I learn out the bastard’s been free for months.” He brought his chair to a stop and turned it to face Dougan, and lifted his eyebrows a fraction. “Did you know he was alive and free?”
“Anthoun said—”
“Anthoun said,” the young man said with a contemptuous snort. He spun his chair and pushed himself away from the veteran.
“Stow that attitude, boy, or injury or no, I will knock you out of your fucking chair,” Dougan snapped as he placed himself in front of Tristan. “We decided it would be best to keep it from you lest you burst something from shouting or gave yourself apoplexy.”
“I am not shouting.”
“Only because you can’t walk from here to there and back again without looking like you’re going to collapse. Sweet Siranon’s tits, I think I preferred you before you ran off.” Tristan’s face turned to stone, and Dougan scrubbed his hands across his face as the young man rolled himself. “I didn’t mean that. We’re trying to do what we think best.”
“Then try talking to me.” He met the veteran’s eyes as he brought the chair to a stop and pulled the wool blanket farther up his lap. “All my life, Anthoun has kept me swaddled and tucked away in Dorishad. You helped him do it. When Duke Riand questioned my place at Dorishad—”
“Ignore that ass.”
“—I didn’t hear Anthoun stand up to him. Everyone says I am to inherit Dorishad when he dies, but he hasn’t formally adopted me to make such an inheritance legal.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Does he think I’m incapable of understanding whatever is so complicated?”
“Well, no...”
“He must, or he’d have explained it by now, wouldn’t he?” Tristan’s eyebrows knit together. “Then, without a word, the two of you up and leave. No explanation.”
“It’s not like that, and you know it.”
“Do I? I’m not so sure. Being kept ignorant and coddled drove me to run away. When I met Gwistain, I figured out why you and Anthoun left Dorishad so quickly. It had to do with the Horned Knight, did it not?”
Dougan pressed his lips together and said nothing for a long moment. “We feared you headed north to join an army before we could teach you what you needed to know.”
Tristan held up his left hand to display his missing finger and swept his eyes around the low buildings surrounding the courtyard. “That worked out well.”
The veteran gave him a sour smirk. “We hoped for more time.”
“Why? Hoping I’d grab my manhood and tell Jayna I wanted her?”
“Frankly, yes,” Dougan said, folding his arms across his chest. “We want a good life for you. You’re the son we obviously can’t have. But you’re right – we forgot what it is to be young, and we kept too much from you.”
“What you forgot is that I’m an orphan.” Tristan let his anger go, finding it too taxing to maintain, and scrubbed a hand over his face. “They pricked my pride – Riand and the others, especially the young knights with their armor, coats of arms, and stories of adventure. What did I have? Drab clothes, the uncertainty of place, and forbidden to step beyond Dorishad’s wall. What in all hells did you think I was going to do?”
“Your duty, I suppose. I thought we discussed that when we met,” a voice said from behind him, rich and wry.
Tristan’s lips tightened, recognizing the voice before Dougan bowed from the waist. He ignored Dougan’s disapproving frown as he turned the chair on its wheels but remained seated.
Twenty paces away stood Gwistain, looking far more royal than when Tristan met him near Anahar’s border. His salted brown hair had been plaited with creamy silk ribbons, and his graying beard shadowed his jaw. A snowy half-cape tied with a gold velvet cord draped his left shoulder; a silvery doublet decorated with intricate embroidery snugged the man’s chest. Black-dyed trunk hose bloomed above knee-high boots polished to a brilliant shine. A golden basket-hilt rapier hung from his belt.
“Would you mind giving us a moment, Dougan?” Gwistain asked as the older man straightened from his bow. “I would like to speak with Tristan in private, if I may.”
“I’d rather he stay,” the young man said as he pushed himself higher in his seat.
“I assume you have your reasons.”
“I do. Mostly to keep me from getting up from this chair and bloodying your face.”
Dougan’s eyes flew wide with shock. “Tristan!”
“He ran off at the first chance, leaving me and Groush – his friend – to be tortured,” Tristan reminded the veteran, bitterness edging his words. “And here he is, healthy and whole and covering himself in glory. Has been for months, if what I’ve been told is right.”
Gwistain frowned. “That is not entirely true.”
“Which part? The leaving us behind, or the glory?”
The prince leaned against a stone planter, his hand shifting the swing of his sword to make the position more comfortable. “The running off part. Ankara released me, perhaps three weeks after we arrived, though her reasons for doing so were unclear. She visited me once after we were taken prisoner, and I did not see her again – even when I was escorted to Akemaar and placed on a barge bound for Caer Ravvos. My hands were, quite literally, tied. I requested an envoy to negotiate your ransom as soon as I was released to my father.”
“If such an individual arrived, the negotiations failed. Not that they would have succeeded; can you imagine Ankara allowing an orphan to leave – especially one who had been lying to her?” Tristan gripped the chair’s arms hard enough to make the wooden joints creak and shifted himself to a more comfortable position. “Whoever you dispatched wasn’t negotiating for our release, was he?”
Gwistain met the younger man’s angry gaze with a patient one of his own. “What do you think you know?”
“You used me as a distraction while trying to determine if Ankara had resumed her alliance with Merid; that much you already told me. What you didn’t know was that Ankara spoke the truth. There was a Meridan envoy in the markets the day you spent with Ankara. It was a deal for fabric, nothing more. Enough fabric to outfit an army.”
“As we suspected.”
“Did you know Sathra was plotting against Ankara?”
“Definitively? No.” Gwistain gave Tristan a patient smile. “Anahari nobles are always scheming and outmaneuvering each other to advance themselves.”
“Groush and I were expendable,” Tristan said as he leaned back in his chair. “You knew that if Ankara turned on us, my story of being your apprentice would crumble. Any envoy sent to negotiate my release was doomed to failure, which means he was a spy meant to confirm your suspicions.”
“An unnecessary action, as it turns out. Sathra sits the throne, now that Ankara is dead.”
“I know. I killed her.”
“I doubt that.”
“Are you calling me a liar? I suggest you speak with Groush if you doubt me. He saw me do it.”
“I have not seen Groush. He spoke with an aide of mine, then vanished.” Gwistain shifted his weight to sit more comfortably on the cold stone. “Let us say I’m inclined to believe you did, indeed, kill Ankara. Do you realize that,
by doing so, you are responsible for Anahar and Merid reestablishing an alliance that has been dead for more than a century?”
The young man’s lips curved in a humorless smirk as he ignored the accusation. “Don’t underestimate Sathra, Your Highness; she is ambitious, intelligent, and dangerous. If I hadn’t killed Ankara, she would have.”
“And yet, you live.”
Delivered as coldly as they were, Tristan knew the words were meant to anger him. He struggled to keep his voice and racing heart calm. “Why did you come here, Gwistain?”
The prince said nothing as he studied the younger man’s face for several moments. “You truly came all this way, intending to inform my father I was being held prisoner and report what little you know, didn’t you? Anyone else who managed to escape would have run home.”
“Anyone else did.”
“Are you calling me a coward, boy?”
“Not at all. What I am suggesting is that you don’t give a damn about the people over whom you rule.”
Gwistain lifted his eyes to Dougan. “He is a cheeky one.”
“I can’t say he’s entirely wrong, Your Highness,” Dougan said, his voice soft. “Do you know what he has been through?”
The prince ignored the question and shifted his gaze back to Tristan. “There was, and is, more at stake than your life. Sometimes sacrifices must be made, and I’ll not apologize for it. It is regrettable that you were one of those sacrifices, as I think you a likable enough fellow. To tell you truly, I had not thought to see you again. I was quite surprised when my aide communicated what Groush told him, and had to see for myself that you survived.”
He drew a coin purse from a pouch strapped to his belt and tossed it into the young man’s lap. The metal disks within slithered together as they settled. “There are twenty Archs in that purse, both to pay you for the information you attempted to bring and to compensate you for your suffering.”
“A small fortune,” Tristan said, sarcastic and unimpressed. “Who knew a life could be valued so highly and so cheaply?”
