“Today’s the day the new Dux of Calvus comes to give homage to Arandar, isn’t it?” said Calliande.
“It is,” said Ridmark. “Antenora and Master Vesilius should be there if you don’t feel like coming.”
“I don’t,” said Calliande. “But I need to…I don’t know, Ridmark. I need to just…not be at our house for a day or two. I haven’t been to Tarlion since the pregnancy took a turn for the worst.” She let out a long sigh, and an echo of her old fire went over her face. “And I’m still the Keeper of Andomhaim. Antenora has been carrying too much of my work lately.”
An idea came to Ridmark. “Why don’t we take the boys with us?”
Calliande blinked. “To a ceremony at the court? They’ll be bored out of their minds.”
“All four of us haven’t gone anywhere together for some time,” said Ridmark. “It will be good for them. If we’re both there, they won’t dare misbehave. And, God willing, they’ll both be knights someday. They’ll have to learn how to stand solemnly and listen to formal speeches sooner or later.”
Calliande looked at him, and Ridmark feared that she would give up, that she would go back to her bed and weep some more.
Then she rallied, and he saw a flicker of her old self once more, the woman who had gone with him to Cathair Solas and saved him from the fury of the Dragon Knight’s sword.
“You’re right,” said Calliande. “You usually are. I’ll call my maid and have her help me dress the boys.”
Ridmark nodded, careful not to let his relief show. She had not left the domus since Joanna had died.
It was a start.
###
An hour later, Ridmark found himself standing on a raft as the ferrymen poled the craft towards the docks north of the walls of Tarlion.
He could have worn a formal tunic and mantle and cloak, but he was the Shield Knight of Andomhaim, and so he had opted for armor instead. Specifically, he wore the blue dark elven armor he had taken from the armories of Urd Morlemoch all those years ago, the overlapping plates of blue steel protecting his torso and upper legs. Beneath the armor, he wore a gambeson, tunic, trousers, and heavy boots, and the gray cloak the last archmage of the high elves had given him hung from his shoulders. A belt encircled his waist, heavy with the weight of sword and dagger.
Oathshield rested in its scabbard upon his left hip.
There was no other sword like it in Andomhaim, and likely outside of the realm as well.
The sword was an odd shade of deep blue, with a soulstone worked into the tang of the blade. Oathshield was a soulblade, and it had all the powers of one of those mighty weapons. It could wound and slay creatures of dark magic immune to weapons of normal steel and wood. It could tear through magical wards to slay evil wizards and wielders of dark magic. The sword gave its bearer enhanced strength, speed, accelerated healing, and protection from magic, and it could use limited healing magic on others.
These were normal powers for a soulblade, and with those powers, the Knights of the Order of the Soulblade had defended Andomhaim for nearly five centuries. Without the Swordbearers, Andomhaim would have fallen long ago, first to the wrath of the urdmordar, and then to the invasion of the Frostborn.
But Oathshield was unique.
Most soulblades had only one soulstone. Oathshield had a second worked into the pommel of the blade, and from that second soulstone came the unique power of the sword, the power of the Shield Knight.
It was a terrible power with a high cost, and Ridmark had only been forced to use it twice since Ardrhythain had given him the sword. But he felt that power waiting through his link to Oathshield, felt the sword’s stern wrath.
It was sleeping now, but should he need it, Oathshield’s power would explode in fury.
He looked at the others. Calliande stood near the edge of the raft, her eyes distant, both hands grasping the staff of the Keeper, her green skirt rippling against her legs in the breeze. A few strands of blond hair had broken free of the bronze diadem of the Keeper and danced around her face. She had donned the mien of the Keeper of Andomhaim, calm and aloof and serene, but Ridmark knew his wife well enough to see how sad she looked.
Ridmark wished he could do more for her. But as he knew all too well, grief had its own logic.
Joachim stood near his mother. He was not fond of water travel, but he was putting on a brave face, partly for Calliande, and partly not to show weakness in front of Gareth. Joachim’s nurse, an old widow named Tindra, stood behind him. She did a good job with the boy, alternating between sternness and kindness as necessary.
Gareth stood with Brother Octavius. Ridmark had saved the old friar’s life during the last Mhorite raid into Durandis, and the old man had become Gareth’s tutor. Never one to miss a lesson, he was asking Gareth the names of the chief buildings of Tarlion. Gareth pointed them out one by one – the Citadel, the Great Cathedral, the Castra of the Swordbearers, the Tower of the Magistri, the Tower of the Keeper – and gave Octavius a brief description of each.
“Good, young Gareth, good,” said the old friar. His tanned head looked like a brown egg, with a few wisps of gray hair left. “Though you likely already know quite a lot about the Tower of the Keeper.”
“We do stay there when Mother or Father have business in the city,” said Gareth. “Or when Lady Antenora and Sir Gavin visit.” He considered. “I can always beat their son Philip at swords.”
“That’s because you’re a year older than he is,” Joachim pointed out.
Gareth was unpersuaded. “It still counts.”
At last, the ferry docked below the walls of Tarlion, and Ridmark led the horses off the raft. Mistress Tindra and Brother Octavius each took their own horse. Gareth was just old enough to ride a pony of his own. A knight had to know how to ride, after all, and Ridmark had found him an older pony of placid temperament that made a good first mount. He expected Joachim to ride with Tindra, but instead, Calliande mounted her horse, and Tindra passed him up to her.
That, too, was a good sign.
Joachim settled with satisfaction in front of his mother, her arm around his waist. Gareth looked torn between wanting to ride with Calliande and pleasure at having his own pony, but he decided to remain with his own pony.
“Did you check the stirrups?” said Ridmark.
“Yes, Father,” said Gareth.
“The bit is in properly?”
Gareth nodded. “Yes, Father.”
“Remember to steer with the reins,” said Ridmark. “Don’t pull too hard, or you’ll hurt the pony, and she’ll turn sharply enough that you might lose your seat. And gentle taps with your heels. We’re riding to the Citadel, not galloping to it.”
Gareth nodded again, taking a deep breath as he adjusted the reins in his hands.
“I want a horse,” announced Joachim.
“When you are old enough, young master,” said Tindra. Calliande gave Joachim a faint smile, and then her distant look returned as she gazed at the northern gate of Tarlion. Perhaps her thoughts were on Joanna again. Or maybe her thoughts had gone back to the terrible battles that had been fought below Tarlion’s walls.
A lot of people had died here.
Ridmark shook off the dark thoughts.
“Everyone ready?” said Ridmark.
They were, and Ridmark led the way into Tarlion.
After eight years, there were no traces left of Tarrabus Carhaine’s siege walls, no hint that the Frostborn had been defeated here. Looking at the peaceful fields and meadows outside the city, it was hard to believe that hundreds of thousands of men and orcs and dwarves and other kindreds had struggled and died here. Men-at-arms in blue surcoats adorned with the red dragon of the Pendragons guarded the northern gate, and they let the Keeper of Andomhaim and the Shield Knight pass without challenge.
Beyond lay the Forum of the North, dotted with statues of long-dead knights and lords and Magistri, including a new statue commemorating all those who had died in the fighting after Imaria Shadowbearer had
broken the gate. Ridmark rode through the Forum of the North and onto the Via Borealis, houses of stone lining the street. There was a good deal of traffic, with merchant wagons heading to the north and the markets in the new city Queen Mara and Prince Jager were building, messengers going about their business, and the occasional enterprising peddler with a cart selling sausages or meat rolls. Many people cheered as Calliande rode past, and she answered with a gracious nod. Ridmark’s wife was beloved in Tarlion. She had healed the wounds of countless soldiers after the battle with the Frostborn, and in the eight years since she had healed many others who had come to her for help. One hundred thousand people lived in the city, and Ridmark supposed that nearly all of them knew someone whom Calliande had helped.
They rode through the Forum of the Crown, the largest market in Tarlion, and threaded their way through the stalls and the crowds of shoppers, humans and orcs and halflings and even a few dwarven merchants from Khald Tormen. From there they took the ramp that climbed the Citadel’s crag and entered the fortress’s vast courtyard. The Tower of the Moon rose high overhead, a white spike against the blue sky, and before them stood the basilica that served as the High King’s audience hall.
Already a crowd of nobles filled the courtyard. Nearly all the nobles of Calvus had been killed or executed during the civil war, and over the last eight years, Arandar had gradually appointed new ones, most of them minor knights and men-at-arms who had distinguished themselves fighting the Frostborn. He had appointed a new Dux for Calvus soon after the defeat of the Frostborn, but the unfortunate man had gotten himself killed exploring the ancient dark elven ruins that sprawled beneath Castra Andrius.
After that, the High King had appointed Sir Cortin Lamorus as the new Dux of Calvus, much to old Corbanic Lamorus’s pleasure. Ridmark thought it a good choice. Sir Cortin had served as his father’s right hand during the siege of Tarlion, and he had conducted himself well during the campaigns against the Mhorites and the Qazaluuskan orcs since.
Ridmark reined up and dropped from his saddle, and a small army of pages in Pendragon tabards came to take their horses. Perhaps before the end of the year, Gareth would be serving as a page in the royal court, learning the skills of a knight from Arandar’s master-at-arms. Ridmark had originally thought to send Gareth to his brother Tormark’s court at Castra Arban, but it might be better for Calliande if the boy remained close…
“Lord Ridmark!”
Ridmark turned as a young man in his early twenties approached. Crown Prince Accolon Pendragon looked like his father, with the same fierce eyes, crooked beak of a nose, and thick black hair. Accolon had grown since Ridmark had first rescued him from Tarrabus Carhaine’s prison all those years ago. Serving as first Ridmark’s squire and then Prince Consort Jager’s had seasoned him a great deal, to say nothing of the campaigns against the Mhorites and the dvargir since.
Ridmark bowed, and Tindra and Brother Octavius did so as well. “Lord Prince. It is good to see you.”
“And you,” said Accolon with a smile. “I’m glad Father chose Sir Cortin for the Duxarchate. The place needs a steady hand, and…”
He blinked in surprise as Calliande dismounted. Calliande had not been to Tarlion since the difficulties in her pregnancy, and she had lost enough weight during the illnesses after Joanna’s death that the change in her appearance would have been stark to anyone who had not seen her in six months.
“My lady Keeper,” said Accolon, recovering his poise. “It is good to see you again. It has been too long.”
Her eyes were remote as she looked at him, but Calliande bowed and offered a smile. “Lord Prince. Likewise. Perhaps I should have returned sooner.”
“Are you well, my lady?” said Accolon.
Calliande shrugged. “I am as well as I have any right to be.”
“Of course,” said Accolon. “Would you come with me? I think we’ll begin as soon as all the nobles enter the hall.” He offered an apologetic smile. “Best to get these things over with as soon as possible, I fear. That many men and women gathered together without food and drink will become irritable in short order.”
“Especially without the drink,” said Ridmark.
They followed the Crown Prince to the doors of the basilica. Ridmark offered Calliande his arm, and she smiled and threaded her arm through his, though she did not look at him or anyone else after she did.
Accolon led them into the great hall of the High King’s Citadel. It was as large and wide as the Great Cathedral of Tarlion, and the stained-glass windows showed scenes from Andomhaim’s history, High Kings past triumphing over the urdmordar and dark elven princes and the pagan orcs. After Arandar died, perhaps Accolon would commission a new window showing his father leading the loyalist host to victory against Tarrabus and the Enlightened.
As Keeper of Andomhaim, Calliande would stand near the High King’s dais, and Ridmark and the others walked there as the nobles filed into the hall. Brother Octavius seized the opportunity to make it into a lesson, questioning Gareth about the history shown in the windows, with Joachim answering enthusiastically on the infrequent occasions when he knew the answer.
Ridmark looked at Calliande, but she said nothing, her eyes distant as she gazed at the windows.
At last the men-at-arms closed the doors to the great hall, the High King and the High Queen walked onto the dais, and silence fell over the assembled lords. Arandar had aged in the eight years since he had become High King, his hair now more gray than black, but he wore it well. The red gold Pendragon Crown rested upon his head, and the ancient sword Excalibur hung at his belt. The High Queen Cearowyn was twelve years his junior, and she looked the part as well, clad in a rich gown of blue with red trim. Arandar saw Calliande, blinked in surprise, smiled, and then walked to the edge of the dais and lifted his hands.
“My lords!” called Arandar, his voice ringing over the hall. “I thank you all for coming on this joyous day. Our realm was in grave danger from both the Enlightened and the Frostborn, and many worthy lords and knights fell in battle.” He omitted to mention the traitorous lords of the Enlightened, which was likely just as well. “It has been my pleasant duty to choose worthy men from among the knights and men-at-arms of Andomhaim to hold these vacant lands in the name of the High King, and I am pleased to bestow the honor of the Duxarchate of Calvus upon Cortin, knight of the House of the Lamorii. Sir Cortin, you may approach.”
Sir Cortin approached the High King’s dais, followed by his wife, his children, and his father Corbanic. Cortin looked like a younger version of the weathered Constable of Tarlion, a bald keg of a man with the strength of an ox. He knelt before the dais and bowed his head.
“Who shall speak for Sir Cortin?” said Arandar.
“I shall, High King,” said Corbanic
In his typical blunt speech, Corbanic outlined the virtues of his son, expounding on his victories on campaign and his valor in battle. Ridmark listened with half an ear and glanced at his sons. Gareth was solemn as usual, his eyes moving between the High King and the Constable. Even Joachim was quiet as he stood next to Tindra. He seemed overawed by the sight of all the knights and lords in their fine armor and bright surcoats. Perhaps the ceremony wouldn’t be a tedium for the boy. Perhaps it would be a lasting memory.
Ridmark looked at Calliande and felt a flicker of alarm.
She was blinking rapidly, and gave a faint shake of her head as if arguing with herself. Was she going to faint? Her strength was not what it had once been. Had she pushed herself too hard too soon?
He touched her right arm, and she looked at him.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered.
“I…I don’t know,” said Calliande.
“Are you feeling ill?” said Ridmark. “If you are, we can take you to the Tower of the Keeper.”
“No, I feel fine,” said Calliande. “It’s the Sight.”
The Sight?
“I’ve never seen magic like this before,” said Calliande, looking in the direction of t
he courtyard.
“Are we under attack?” said Ridmark, glancing around the hall. If they were under attack, they were well-prepared for it. A score of Swordbearers had come to the ceremony, along with a dozen Magistri, and all the nobles and knights were veterans of various campaigns. And they also had the magic of the Keeper, against which no other power of Andomhaim could stand.
Except that Calliande might not be in a fit state, either physically or mentally, to win a fight with anyone.
“I don’t know,” said Calliande. She took a deep breath and looked at Arandar. “I think…”
The doors to the courtyard boomed open with a thunderclap.
A gust of wind swirled through the hall, and Corbanic abandoned his oration, whirling to face the doors. The knights and lords reached for their swords, and Arandar frowned and stepped forward.
A single man stood in the doorway, clad in a ragged brown cloak with a heavy cowl concealing his face. He was over seven feet tall, and Ridmark glimpsed the hilt of a sword at his belt.
In his right hand, the cloaked man held a long staff fashioned of red gold, its top worked into a roaring dragon’s head.
Chapter 2: The Guardian of Cathair Animus
Most of the time, Calliande Arban felt numb.
That was just as well. She didn’t mind numbness.
Because when she was not numb, her mind cast back to that awful day six months past. The final weeks of her troubled pregnancy and the birth itself were a haze in her mind, a muddled memory of pain and exhaustion and blood, but she remembered the end with horrible clarity. She had been trying to cast yet another healing spell, trying to close the hole in Joanna’s heart. A Magistria had to take the pain of a wound into herself to heal, so Calliande had felt her daughter’s agony, had felt how every breath had been a torment.
That meant she had felt it as the healing spell failed and Joanna died.
When Calliande remembered that, the grief threatened to erupt from her heart and consume her mind.
Sevenfold Sword: Champion Page 2
