Jorrell left his army to loot the city. He felt they deserved it after the effort they had expended to take it. He had no interest in preserving a merciful reputation in the eyes of the Littens. He wanted them to be terrified by tales of savagery, so that they would surrender all the more quickly when faced with the unstoppable mob. Years of warring against such a stubborn enemy had worn his sympathy for them away; he had lost too many of his own men to the obstinate Litten fighters.
Jorrell, with Cael by his side - both carrying minor wounds from the battle - trudged back to the fake fort where their horses were waiting for them. They were surrounded by men at work, securing prisoners, carrying armfuls of their plunder, dragging rearing, frightened beasts. As they passed, the shouts and cheers of congratulations rose live a wave.
They mounted and rode out through the grimy dawn, heading for the main camp which had been positioned well out of range of any missiles that could have been fired from the city walls. The ground beneath the snow had been worn clear of grass by a thousand tramping feet. The fully grown trees had been cleared long ago, for firewood and for shelter. Saplings heralded the rebirth of the forest, and caught the early morning mist between their reedy trunks.
Their horses, although massive, were nimble between the thin stems. Their mounts were war horses, sturdy and solidly-muscled, with hooves that were bigger than a man’s head and feathered with tufts of hair. Their wide heads could knock a grown man to the ground, and their leather armour - studded with iron spikes - gave them the appearance of beasts of legend.
The swell of cheers rose again when Jorrell and Cael reached the camp. News of the victory had preceded them. Jorrell swung his heavy cloak, layers of warm wool and shaggy fur, away from his legs so that he could dismount. He was hungry and thirsty and sore and tired, but he took the time to acknowledge the men that came to speak to him. His armour, usually so light and mobile, weighted him down like iron shackles. The bronze scales had been glued together with gore, making the usually mobile metal stiff and awkward. His beard, trimmed now from the lengths it had reached in Veltharesh, but still long enough to keep the harsh draughts from his sensitive neck, was matted with dirt, sweat and blood.
The two friends still shared a tent, although one which was remarkably more spacious than their original quarters in Naidac. They enjoyed far better living conditions and food, and had been assigned a manservant to undertake menial tasks for them. Both had struggled initially with the art of delegation, being so used to being self-sufficient, but they had found their way eventually. That they didn’t rely on their aide to tie their boot laces for them only enhanced their popular appeal in the corps.
Inside their tent they found that Heg, a capable boy not much older than Jorrell had been when he had first been enlisted, had already prepared large bowls of warm water for them to wash the blood away. Heg helped to relieve them of their armour, and took it away to be cleaned, and then prepared food and drink while Jorrell and Cael cleansed themselves of the evidence of the battle.
He brought bandages while they ate and drank, and tended their wounds as much as they would let him. Before he left them to their wine and eventual rest, Heg handed Jorrell a scroll that had been delivered for him whilst he had been at the front lines.
“Sir, a rider brought this today with the other dispatches.”
“Thank you, Heg. Is there any word from General Vassant?”
“Officially no.” Heg inclined his head, and at Jorrell’s expectant silence continued with a sly grin, “Unofficially, he’s seething that you’ve claimed such a glorious victory. I’m sure you can expect a visit from him before the sun sets on tomorrow.”
Cael grunted. “That fat ox couldn’t have taken the city if the Littens had opened the fucking gates and invited him in.”
“True,” Jorrell agreed, “but that fat ox has a half-brother in the Forum. If we insult him, we’ll find ourselves relegated to galley slaves again.”
At the remembrance of his first experience of army life, that first voyage to Naidac, Jorrell rubbed the thick calluses on his fingers and palms.
“Very well, I can be polite.”
The sound that Jorrell made in response to Cael’s assertion was somewhere between a snort and a laugh.
“You’re right. I’ll shut up and let you do the talking, as usual. But I’m curious, which consul is he related to?” Cael asked.
“Bornsig.” Jorrell muttered, before giving Heg leave to retire for the night and opening the scroll.
The edges of the parchment were stained and tattered, but the seal had been intact. The scroll looked to have travelled half the world before it had found him. When Jorrell saw the date written on it, he realised that it must have indeed had quite the journey. It had been sent six years previously, about the time that he had been stationed in Veltharesh.
Cael ripped a chunk of cold chicken from the carcass on the plate before him and leant forward. “What is it then? Another choice assignment? Perhaps they wish for us to conquer the giants of Morjay next, using only our bare hands?”
Jorrell took a deep breath before he answered. “No, we don’t get to leave this paradise just yet. Consul Remmah writes to tell me my father is dead. Has died, I should say, it’s taken almost six years for this to find me.”
Cael immediately sobered. “I’m sorry, brother. Will you request leave to return home?”
Jorrell finished reading the scroll, re-rolled it, and tossed it down by the side of his plate. “No. There’s no need now. Dimacius made my sister his ward, but Remmah writes that she lives within Serwren’s household.”
It was the first time that Jorrell had uttered Serwren’s name aloud in many years, and he had to swallow twice to prevent his voice from cracking when he spoke again.
“I’m not needed there. These events are long past, there’s nothing I can do now, except re-open old wounds. Besides, it’s unlikely that such a request would be granted, Vassant would see to that. And General or no, I’d still be considered a deserter if I left my post without permission.”
“How old... is your sister, was your sister...? You know what I mean,” Cael asked, waving a chicken leg to illustrate his words.
Jorrell did the calculations in a second. “She would have been twelve at the time, she’d be nearly nineteen years old now. She’s probably found a husband, or had one found for her.” He took a large gulp of wine. “If it's someone of Dimacius' choosing, I hope he showed better taste than he did for Serwren.”
“I seem to remember you didn’t care much for his choice. Who did she end up wed to?”
Jorrell took another gulp of wine and answered over the rim of his goblet. “Bornsig.”
“And now you’re practically best friends with your old love’s husband’s half-brother,” Cael teased.
“I’m glad you find the situation so fucking amusing,” Jorrell said dryly.
“You’ve got to the see the humour somewhere, otherwise you’d slit your fucking wrists.”
“There’s no humour in any of this mess.” Jorrell slumped back in his seat. “At least I know that Elthrinn will have been well cared for with Serwren.” Eleven years, and it still hurt to say her name. “We used to be close, but I wouldn’t recognise her if I tripped over her now. She was a child when I left, she’ll be a lady now.”
“You hope.”
Jorrell threw a chicken leg at Cael’s head, which his friend deftly dodged.
“She’ll be a lady. No doubt of that. Serry’ll have seen to it.”
Jorrell smiled to himself, imagining for a moment the fights that Serwren must have endured to ensure that his headstrong sister grew up to be refined and educated. He was glad that Elthrinn had found a home with Serwren. It felt a little like family to him, even from so far away. And he knew that if anyone could look after his sister, could love her and replace the family that she’d lost, it would have been Serwren. He hoped that his sister’s presence had been good for Serwren, too, that she’d felt it as a link betw
een them, as he did now.
“Perhaps you’ll introduce me to your little sister? If we make it home before we’re old men.”
Cael dodged another piece of chicken aimed at his head by Jorrell.
“Brother, I love you, but you’ve got more chance of the Neldinean pool spewing out all the ships it’s ever swallowed that of that ever fucking happening.”
“Look on the bright side,” Cael advised. “At least you know your sister wasn’t married off to Vassant.”
“I almost think I’d prefer it if she’d been married off to you.” Jorrell paused before he finished his wine. “Almost.”
Chapter Seventeen
This season of Taan promised to be more unbearably hot and stifling than any Serwren had yet experienced during the six years she’d spent immersed deep in the countryside of Felthiss. And still she would rather have endured the endless days of smothering, dry heat than answer the summons that demanded her return to the city.
The winds, fresh from the sea of Thleen, laced the air with the tang of salt and heralded her arrival home long before she caught sight of the city. She had declined to make the journey in a carriage, preferring instead to witness the passing of the countryside and the beauty of her surroundings from horseback. Ulli, now a strong, adventurous boy of ten, rode by her side.
Elthrinn had not been summoned, and Serwren would see to it that she would remain undisturbed. Three years previously, when Elthrinn had turned sixteen, Serwren had arranged for her to become a priestess of Doohr. Elthrinn was now safely ensconced in the temple that was situated in the centre of a shallow lake, inland from the city of Thrissia, but not quite so far from the coast as Bornsig’s estate.
It was possible to wade through the lake, it generally came up to the chest of a man of average height, but it was considered more seemly to take one of the shallow skiffs. When undisturbed by a traveller, the waters of the lake lay flat, as reflective as a mirror. The temple, a confection of arches and layers and domes and minarets, rose from that glass surface. It was built from a particular kind of white stone that seemed to reflect whatever shade the sun chose to glow, much as the water of the lake did. It was a fitting setting for the worship of the goddess of water.
Elthrinn had been sad to leave behind a life that she had not yet had an opportunity to live. There was much that she still wanted to experience, so many places that she had planned to visit, but she had understood the workings of their world well enough to know that making the decision to don the green and blue robes of a priestess was likely the most amount of control that she would every have over her own destiny outside the temple walls.
Dimacius had too much respect for the gods to pry the young girl from that place of sanctity in order for her to marry. Serwren had known that would be the case, and it had been her chief motivation in suggesting the scheme, and the reason that Elthrinn had reluctantly agreed to take the vows that would commit her to a life of devotion and piety.
Serwren had risked her father’s wrath to ensure Elthrinn’s safety without first gaining his permission. Her father had responded, in a way, by refusing any contact with her, or with Ulli. He had cut them out of his life, apparently preferring to recognise Erkas as his only progeny. That he had done so had saddened Serwren, but it had not troubled her overly much. She had long since reconciled herself to the knowledge that her father’s love for her was a fickle thing, if it existed at all.
But now Dimacius had sent for her. Serwren suspected that the illness that had caused him to be confined to his bed for the span of a moon was to blame. He was probably feeling his mortality. He was older than he had been, but she would not have considered him an old man. She did not know the specifics of his ailment, but the idea that he wished to rectify such a long standing grievance as if he were on his death bed, seemed overly dramatic.
Serwren had enjoyed her time in the country, much as she had when she’d been pregnant with Ulli. She was far enough away from the people that burdened her that she could pretend that they did not exist. In six years, Bornsig had never once tried to visit her. She occasionally heard gossip about the life he was living, one filled with wine, food and a procession of young playthings, but she did not seek such news. She was happy to enjoy the measure of freedom that she had found and to forget that she had a husband.
When he’d become old enough to understand that there were differences between people and families, rather than accepting his situation with the blind faith of a young child, Ulli had asked about his father. He barely remembered Bornsig and wondered why he did not have a father who lived with them. By that time, Serwren had been certain of Ulli's parentage, and had explained that his father had been sent away and could not return. It wasn’t much of an answer, but it was as much of the truth that she could give him.
She had continued to do what she could for the people of the area, be it sitting as their judge during disagreements, or using the knowledge she had built during her education to make their lives a little easier. It was a farming community, and formal education was not a priority for most of the children. The children were needed to help on their family’s farms, but Serwren had gathered them whenever possible to teach them the rudimentary skills of reading, writing and mathematics.
Serwren supposed that she had a measure of popularity, but again, she preferred not to listen to the gossips. Since people were not chasing her with pitchforks or burning brands, or spitting at her in the street, she thought that they, at least, did not hate her.
The journey took them three days, even though they had started at dawn and ridden until dusk. By the time that night had claimed the sky from the sunset on the third day, their party was only just reaching the outskirts of the city. They did not pause as they rode through the streets, past the home she had once shared with Bornsig.
Once Serwren had realised that a trip to the city would be inevitable, she had secured rooms for their party at a tavern, a place that she remembered as being one of the least lively establishments. The servant that she had sent to make the reservations had reported that its reputation and atmosphere had not changed. They were expected, and a man came out to meet them and took their horses to be stabled and cared for at a nearby hostelry.
Aileth, now too old to make such a journey, had remained at the country house. Mara had travelled with them, as she intended to make use of the opportunity to visit her own family. Serwren went to see to their rooms and left Mara to supervise the unloading and transportation of their baggage. She kept Ulli close by her, or as close as his burgeoning manhood would allow, but as soon as she set foot over the threshold Serwren saw that her memories had been accurate and that the reports of her servant had allied with them.
They were shown to their rooms and, when their luggage was brought up, they changed into clean clothes and sent the ones coated with the dust of their journey to be laundered. Serwren ordered food to be brought up, and they enjoyed a simple meal of fresh bread, cheese, sweet peppers and olives, accompanied by a dipping sauce of oil infused with garlic and herbs. It was not dissimilar to the kind of rustic repast that they enjoyed on a daily basis in the country. Serwren wondered if Ulli would be given the opportunity to taste some of the spectacular confections that were created by the palace kitchens, but she doubted that her father’s flag of truce would extend quite so far as to offer them an invitation to an official event, or even a meal at the palace.
Ulli’s eyes were closing almost before he’d finished eating. He needed no persuasion to ready himself for bed and was soon fast asleep. Serwren, however, stayed awake for a long time. She was exhausted, but her mind was being assaulted by memories, and her heart was drowning in emotion. She sat at the window and looked out across the bay at the full pale moon which was settled low in the star-specked sky.
She would have been prepared to end her days in the peace of the country, unmolested by anyone that she disliked, but coming back to the city had awakened senses that she hadn’t realised had been dormant. She
could hear the chatter of the denizens that roamed during the night hours. She could smell the lingering scents of the markets. The salt of the sea was so thick in the air she could almost taste it. She felt vibrant and alive again. It was a dangerous feeling, it whispered to her of the reasons to stay, even though memories from her childhood and young adulthood, both happy and agonising, cut her to shreds with each murmur.
When Serwren did sleep, her subconscious loosed dreams and nightmares that hadn’t troubled her in many years.
~o0o~
For the first meeting with her father, Serwren left Ulli in Mara’s care while she visited the palace. She wanted to find out what sort of reception she was likely to get before she subjected her son to scrutiny. If there was any chance at all that Ulli would be derided or abused, she would take him back to the country and never turn her face to the city of Thrissia again.
The staff that she encountered at the palace remembered her, and welcomed her with warmth and affection. It almost felt a little like home again, but Serwren made sure to keep at the forefront of her mind that it was not, and never would be, her home. It hadn’t been since the day that her father had decreed she was to marry Bornsig.
Lost in the Dawn (Erythleh Chronicles Book 1) Page 19
