Lost in the Dawn (Erythleh Chronicles Book 1)

by Catherine Johnson

  Seddrill took a sip of his own drink before speaking. “You did well today, Serwren.”

  “I had no choice. Should I have cried? Beat my chest? Made an exhibition of my emotions?”

  “You could have done, but none of that would have been a useful channel for your energies.”

  “And you have suggestions as to which direction I should expend my energies in?” Serwren asked dryly. She didn’t think that Seddrill was interested in her body, but she was too used to betrayal now to be surprised if that turned out to be his motive.

  “I do.” He took another drink and Serwren prepared to grab her knife. “Your brother is deluded as to the level of his popularity.”

  Seddrill's tone was conversational, and the topic was far enough removed from the course that Serwren had been expecting that she was disorientated for a moment. It was also not a subject that she wished to discuss, with anyone.

  “Please, I’d rather not speak of this.”

  Seddrill regarded her shrewdly. “But you must. Did you know about the graffiti that’s appearing around the city? Have you seen it on your wanderings today?”

  “No.” Serwren shook her head. She didn’t trouble herself to listen to the idle gossip of the servants, and there was no one else from the depths of the city that she communicated with on a regular basis. She hadn’t seen any graffiti while she’d been shopping. She had been intent on completing her tasks.

  Seddrill grinned ruefully. “It is possible that all the marks were cleaned away, ready for your brother’s investiture today.”

  “I really don’t know what it is that you’re talking about.” Serwren felt impatience begin to kindle.

  “The graffiti is a pair of blue eyes. Surely even you heard of its appearance when your brother started his campaign. It was a symbol used by his supporters to show their allegiance and dedication to him.”

  Serwren nodded; she had heard of those daubed graphics. Seddrill continued, “Lately people have been adding long lashes to those crude scrawls.”

  At Serwren’s non-plussed look, Seddrill expanded his explanation, with a touch of exasperation to his tone. “The new graffiti is to signify support for you, my dear.”

  Serwren was shocked. “Me? Why me? I’m no politician, merely a politician’s wife.”

  “My spies tell me that you are much more popular among the people than your brother.”

  “Spies?” Serwren asked.

  “Don’t act so naïve, Serwren. It doesn’t suite you,” Seddrill admonished.

  She hadn’t been surprised that Seddrill had his spies, she knew very well that everyone had at least one other pair of eyes somewhere, she was more surprised that he’d admitted it so openly. “I don’t understand. I haven’t done anything for them? Why would anyone think I’m worth supporting?”

  Seddrill looked confused for a moment, and then his expression cleared. “My dear, you suggested the installation of irrigation channels that has resolved a decades-old drought problem in your husband’s constituency. The constituency that you visit more than he does, I might add. That work has benefited the people greatly. They attribute that benefit to you, and the rumours of their reverence, and their reason for it, have reached the city.

  “It was the sensible course of action. The crops were suffering in the extreme seasons.”

  “And you noticed and did something about it.” Seddrill sat forward, and placed his cup carefully on the table before resting his elbows on either side of it. “The people do not forget such interest in their welfare, Serwren. They haven’t forgotten how you mediated in their disputes with a firm, yet fair opinion.”

  “What does all this mean? Why are you telling me this?

  “It means you are gradually building a base from which you could enter the Forum, if you still wished to.”

  She did want that, so very much, but it was not her dream to realise now. There were insurmountable barriers in her way, her husband and her father chief amongst them. “No. I don’t want that.”

  “I thought you did?” Seddrill was watching her closely, in a way that made Serwren feel more exposed than if she had been naked.

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Serwren, don’t let your brother taint your dream. This is truly within your grasp.”

  “Really? I doubt it.” Serwren shook her head and said with more than a little sorrow, “Besides, I plan to go away for a while, maybe years. I wish to leave the city. Tomorrow I will be travelling to my husband’s estate in the country.”

  Seddrill smiled as if she had said something remarkable. “That’s probably the best thing that you could do, my dear. Get to know the people. Help them in your inimitable way. Word will travel back to the city. That you take time to see and experience what your husband does not will only strengthen the support for you.”

  “And why are you interested in me obtaining a seat in the Forum? What advantage do you gain from such a thing?”

  “Another reasonable voice backed by intelligence rather than ego. There’s precious little of that in the Forum. What small amount there was may be burnt out by your brother’s arrival.”

  “I shall think on it.”

  “There is no need to think about this. Do what comes naturally to you. We’ll see how things stand when you return, and I know you will return, probably sooner rather than later. This city is in your soul.”

  Serwren nodded mutely. Seddrill was not wrong, Thrissia was as much a part of her as her bones, as her blood. Serwren didn’t think she’d actually be able to die without seeing the city again. But she had to ensure the safety of Elthrinn and Ulli before she considered her own happiness, and if that meant leaving the city until they were old enough, or strong enough, to defend themselves, then that was what she would do.

  “I really should be going now. In the unlikely event that my husband tires of all the flattery early, I should be at home.”

  “I understand.” In those two gently spoken words, Serwren saw that Seddrill understood exactly the predicament that her family was in.

  Serwren didn’t bother to finish her wine. Her habits were not wasteful, but she wanted to keep a clear head to consider the seed that Seddrill had planted, and to deal with any challenges that she might yet have to face during the night, or the coming morning. If Bornsig were to be absent for the night, then they could leave early without any drama. She doubted that her luck would extend so far.

  They left the room, and Seddrill stayed close by her side as they descended the stairs and made their way through the markedly more rowdy crowd in the main room. When they stepped out into the fresh night air, Seddrill made to leave in the opposite direction to Serwren. That he would guard her in the tavern, but not in the rough streets, surprised her.

  “You’re not going to walk with me?”

  “It’s your city, Serwren. It will not harm you.”

  She wasn’t so sure about that. The city at night was not the place for a woman to walk alone, especially one who was visibly wealthy. Serwren didn’t drape herself in jewels or silks, but the cut and quality of her clothing still advertised her position in society.

  “Go. Truly,” Seddrill urged. “You can take your revenge on me if I’m wrong.”

  “Much good it’ll do me then,” Serwren muttered as she negotiated the narrow streets back to the main thoroughfare. The sun had set and the streets were lit by the lamplight that escaped from the dwellings that lined them. She should have been scared, she was at first, but her nervousness receded with each step. No one approached her with malice. A few people stopped her to ask after her health and after Ulli; many simply smiled and nodded as she passed. Several people asked for her assistance with a small request to the Forum. Politically speaking, such minor difficulties were trifles, but Serwren understood that they were matters of great importance to the people directly affected by them. She promised to intervene where she thought her skills of persuasion could be of use. She knew which consuls she could contact to find solutions;
Seddrill would be one.

  When she arrived home, surprised and not a little exhausted, Aileth reported that Elthrinn and Ulli were both asleep, and that Bornsig had not long since preceded her arrival. Aileth was almost as excited as Serwren to leave the city, the old maid had never liked Bornsig, but his gluttonous and lascivious ways had hardened that dislike into hatred.

  Serwren sighed. If Bornsig was in residence, there was no opportunity for a discreet departure. She would have to confront him. She checked once more that her knife was in place, but this time, she didn’t let it go; she slipped it from the leather sheath that prevented it from catching on her skirts, and kept her fist hidden in the folds of material as she knocked on the door of her husband’s study. This would mark the first time that she had voluntarily sought his company in almost five years of marriage.

  He called out to grant admittance. Serwren gripped the handle of the knife a little tighter, and entered the room. Bornsig was slumped in a comfortable chair by a blazing fire in the hearth. He looked up to see who it was that had interrupted his peace. The flames revealed the drunken glint in his eyes.

  “Ah, wife. You’ve finally come to discharge your duties,” he slurred.

  “Not at all. I come to tell you that tomorrow I take Elthrinn and Ulli, along with Aileth and Mara, to your house in the country. I do not know when we will return. I have no plan to do so with any urgency.”

  Bornsig hefted his bulk into a more upright position. “Really? I don’t remember giving you permission.”

  “Because I did not ask for it. I’m not asking for it now. I am telling you what I will do.”

  Bornsig fumbled his goblet onto the table at his side, and pulled himself out of the chair. Serwren held her ground as he lurched towards her, although her heart picked up its rhythm.

  “And what will you give me for allowing you to go, little wife?” Bornsig asked as he reached her, stepping so close that his prodigious gut nudged her stomach.

  Serwren did not take the step back that she so badly wanted to. Instead, she removed her knife from its hiding place and jabbed it into Bornsig’s groin. The motion wasn’t violent enough to wound him, only firm enough to make him aware of the blade’s existence and location.

  “I’ll allow you to keep your disgusting hide whole, but if you touch me, I’ll take your balls.”

  “You’d be punished for assaulting your husband, little wife,” Bornsig sneered.

  Serwren smiled, and she let the ice in her veins show in her eyes. Her hatred for her husband was almost tangible, a cloak that she drew around herself.

  “I’d be executed for your murder.” She pressed the knife forward a little more firmly, and felt the point sink into flesh. Bornsig grunted and took a step back. “We leave in the morning. You will not stand in our way.”

  Only then did Serwren retreat, but she did not turn her back on her dumbstruck husband until she was safely out of the room.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Eleven years. Eleven years of blood, his own as well as other people's. Eleven years of death. Eleven years away from home, away from family, away from love, away from hope.

  Eleven years, and no end in sight.

  The war in Litt had continued for six of those eleven years.

  It was the first moon of Doohr, and it was Jorrell’s twenty-ninth birthday. Not that anyone in the army knew that. Not that anyone would have cared - Cael maybe - but Jorrell didn’t much care for himself. It was only another year to add to the list of years.

  Almost as soon as he’d set foot in the nation of Litt, Jorrell had realised what was behind the First Father's inspiration to start a war, to decree that the country must be conquered, no matter what. There were vast reserves of gold in this country. Crystal streams washed the nuggets right out of the black earth. There was a fortune, waiting only to be gathered, in this land of snow and ice and rock. It was a fortune that was badly needed by a country that was racking up debt against the exploits of its army.

  Litt would not become a colony in the way that Naidac was, it would never have so much autonomy over its own affairs. To allow it such liberty would mean that it kept the riches in its soil. No, Litt was destined to become something like a province of Felthiss. Everything that Litt had would become the property of Felthiss, would be marked the resources of its governing country.

  And such an outcome was inevitable, because despite a valiant effort, Litt was losing the war. It was out of allies, out of resources and damn near out of bodies to keep putting in front of the Felthissian army. But still the people fought on, clinging to their last shreds of independence like the threads of a half-remembered dream.

  During the six years of battles and skirmishes, of truces and subterfuge, Jorrell had proved himself to be a shrewd and effective commander. As those more senior to him had realised his worth and his use, he had been promoted through the ranks. For the past two years, he had wielded the title of General.

  There had been some who had seen Jorrell’s advancement as an injustice, who had thought him unworthy of such responsibility, but none of those people were in the rank and file of the foot soldiers. The ordinary soldiers had welcomed Jorrell’s promotion, had celebrated for him. He had been one of them once. He gave them inspiration that they, too, could avoid a future as cannon fodder. And he had not forgotten that he had been in those filthy, bloody shield walls.

  Jorrell couldn’t end the war with words. He couldn’t send the army home. He couldn’t give them warm sunshine and feather beds instead of snow, bitter winds and hard earth. But he endeavoured to do his best for his soldiers, in all matters, and they respected him for that.

  Jorrell's reputation was strengthened by his successful battle strategies. His almost mythical stature was enhanced by his regard for the human life of his men. He didn’t see his battalions as an infinite resource, he saw them as loyal human beings and treated them accordingly. He didn’t risk their lives on a whim. If he sent them to die, he did so with a degree of certainty that they would not die in vain.

  The army fought all the harder for him, because he fought for them. Those that did not return to camp achieved an almost martyr-like status. Men talked of naming their first-born sons after Jorrell, should they ever return home to breed. The crippled and lame that were discharged from military duties returned home bearing the legends of his victories.

  And on this day, they had another tale to tell, another story to spin.

  The army had laid siege to Cottrill, the capital city of Litt. The siege had been holding for almost a year now. Supplies must have been running low, but the residents inside the walls had not yet starved, and they had not given up.

  So far, Jorrell had eschewed the usual tactics that would be employed to break a siege. He hadn’t been able to poison their water; their supply came from an underground reservoir that the Felthissians could not reach. He was loath to trebuchet diseased bodies over the walls. He felt that the risk to his own men whilst they were handling the putrefied corpses was too great.

  Unable to find a way to go over, or through the walls, Jorrell decided to send his men under them.

  He had set up some disguising fortifications. To an observer from Cottrill, it would appear that the hastily-built fort was a base of operations for the invading army. Jorrell had instigated an elaborate farce of officers going to and from the structure to add to the illusion. In reality, shifts of men were digging tunnels from the fort, underneath the foundations of the city walls. During the night before, the mining parties had reported that their work was complete.

  During that day, Jorrell had instructed several units to engage the defenders of Cottrill. Now, as darkness fell, knowing that the natives would be exhausted, he sent the rest of his battalions through the tunnels and into the very heart of the city.

  Jorrell was in the vanguard. Some generals liked to situate themselves on a high vantage point and watch the battle play out before them. Jorrell preferred to be in the thick of it, and where he expected h
is men to go, he tried to go, too. It was a rare occasion that someone was able to hold him back with the persuasive argument that a commander had to remain alive to lead.

  The burrowing miners broke through the last few feet of dirt, and the Felthissian soldiers, shrouded by foul smoke from burning bundles of straw infused with sulphur, streamed up into the unprepared city like rats escaping sewers during a flood.

  Confusion and panic reigned in Cottrill for long, bloody hours. The Littens had been wholly unprepared for such an attack, and they could not seem to stem the tide of their enemy, which had appeared as if by magic. When the gates were eventually thrown open, it was the Felthissian army that emerged victorious.