At least Ridmark and the others had been able to spread the news that the Necromancer had been defeated and Queen Zenobia crowned.
They headed for the stone quay of the ferry station, and Ridmark saw that Sir Parmenio did indeed lead the group of scouts. Parmenio was a man of middle years, with a thin, pinched face and graying hair, his skin weathered from years spent under the harsh sun of Owyllain.
Though come to think of it, he wasn’t all that much older than Ridmark.
“Sir Parmenio!” called Ridmark.
Parmenio had seen them coming, of course. The Arcanius Knight did not like to lead, but he was an excellent scout. Parmenio blinked a few times, grinned, and jogged over to join them, his men following.
“Lord Ridmark!” he said. “By God, sir, it is good to see you again.” They gripped hands, and Parmenio stepped back. “Lady Calliande, Sir Tamlin, Lady Kalussa. It seems a long time since Castra Chaeldon, does it not?”
“Aye,” said Ridmark. “A long time for us all.”
“Is it true?” said Parmenio. “We heard rumors from the other scouts as we returned. Has the Necromancer of Trojas truly been slain?”
“That he has,” said Ridmark. “If you don’t believe me, look for yourself. Prince Krastikon now bears the Sword of Death, and the last daughter of Malachi Trimarch now reigns in the city.”
Krastikon inclined his head and tapped the black pommel of the Sword at his belt.
“God be praised,” said Parmenio. “Justin Cyros and the Necromancer defeated in the same month? It seems too incredible to believe…” He trailed off and looked at Krastikon, realizing that praising God for the death of Justin Cyros might not be wise in front of Justin’s son.
“Fear not, Sir Parmenio,” said Krastikon. “I lived those events and witnessed them firsthand, and it still seems incredible.”
“Come,” said Ridmark. “We’ll take the ferry over together and share news on the way.”
“Aye,” said Parmenio. “I must report to King Hektor at once, though.”
“Then he is in the city?” said Ridmark.
“He is,” said Parmenio. “He wished to name Prince Aesacus his heir, and that must be done at the Great Cathedral.”
“A good choice,” said Kalussa, and Parmenio gave her a startled glance, no doubt from the roughness of her voice.
Ridmark was inclined to agree with Hektor’s choice. He had met Aesacus Pendragon a few times before leaving Aenesium. While Rypheus had been flashy and bold and charismatic, Aesacus had been quiet and studious. Yet Rypheus had proven false, and Aesacus had fought fiercely during the ill-fated banquet. Nor had he complained when Hektor had appointed him regent of the city during his absence.
“He will want to speak with you and hear your great tidings,” said Parmenio.
“Aye,” said Ridmark. But first, they were going to Tamlin’s house to see Gareth and Joachim. He suspected no force under the sun could stop Calliande from returning to their sons. “But, come. Let us cross the Morwynial first.”
They walked to the stone pier, and Ridmark started telling Parmenio what had happened in Trojas. He gave a brief sketch of Taerdyn’s fall and Queen Zenobia’s crowning. Tamlin looked away when Ridmark mentioned Aegeus’s death, his eyes distant.
“You are now the Prince Consort of Trojas, my lord?” said Parmenio.
“I have that honor, sir,” said Krastikon.
Parmenio shook his head. “I do not know what King Hektor will think.”
Krastikon shrugged. “Queen Zenobia wishes to follow King Hektor, as the Kings of Trojas have always followed the High Kings of Owyllain. I fear Trojas is too ravaged by the Necromancer’s rule to provide much aid for the war, but what help that Trojas will provide, it can.”
Parmenio nodded and met Krastikon’s eye. “There are some who will say, my lord, that you rule in Trojas and that Queen Zenobia will follow her husband’s wishes. Especially since you now carry the Sword of Death.”
Ridmark wondered if Krastikon would take offense, but the Prince only snorted. “Hardly. I am Swordborn so I can wield the Sword of Death safely, but I cannot use any of its dark powers. For that matter, I wish to see the damned thing destroyed in Cathair Animus as soon as possible.” Amusement entered his quiet voice. “And if I may be blunt, sir, any man who thinks my wife would entrust the rule of Trojas to any hands but her own is in for a rude shock.”
“In that,” said Third, “your wife reminds me of my sister Queen Mara.” It was a high compliment from her.
“Well, such matters are for King Hektor to decide,” said Parmenio. By then they had all boarded the ferry, and the ferrymen set off, oars lashing at the water to resist the river’s strong current. “Myself, I just scout.”
“And what news do you have?” said Ridmark.
“Strange news,” said Parmenio. “After the Battle of the Plains…”
“The plains?” said Kalussa.
“That is what men have been calling the battle between King Hektor and King Justin, my lady,” said Parmenio. “The Battle of the Plains.” He glanced at Calliande. “Some have called it the Battle of the Trisalian Charge, but, well…”
“The Battle of the Plains does roll off the tongue rather well, does it not?” said Calliande with a smile.
Ridmark had seen the enspelled trisalians waiting near the camps of Castra Chaeldon. The Battle of the Plains and Justin’s crushing defeat had demonstrated the power of the trisalian lizards in combat beyond all doubt, and the Arcanius Knights were rushing to teach themselves to use the beasts in battle. Just as the horse and the mounted knight was the backbone of the armies of Andomhaim, Ridmark suspected that the Arcanius Knight and an enspelled trisalian might become the striking force of the hosts of Owyllain.
“Just so, my lady,” said Parmenio. “After the Battle of the Plains, King Hektor sent scouts to the northeast. You remember that before the battle, we feared the Confessor would fall upon us while we fought King Justin.”
“Yes,” said Ridmark. The Confessor hadn’t stirred during the fighting.
“We scouted all the way east to the Tower Mountains and far enough north to reach the vale of Urd Maelwyn itself,” said Parmenio. “Yet we saw a strange sight. The Confessor has called all his armies to his side…but he has not sent them forth. Rather, he is digging in.”
Ridmark blinked. “Digging in?”
“Urd Maelwyn’s fortifications are strong, but they were damaged during the Sovereign’s final battle with High King Kothlaric,” said Parmenio.
“I remember,” said Tamlin. “They still hadn’t been repaired when I escaped from Urd Maelwyn with Aegeus and Michael.”
“They are being repaired now,” said Parmenio. “It seems that the Confessor has hired dvargir engineers. They are rebuilding the walls, and they are raising earthwork walls and digging ditches around the city. The Confessor is fortifying Urd Maelwyn.”
“But that does not make any sense,” said Kalussa.
“Perhaps,” said Ridmark. “But maybe he thinks to force Hektor to come to him.”
“The defender often has the advantage in warfare,” said Tamlin.
“Aye,” said Ridmark, “but so does the commander who seizes the initiative.”
“Perhaps the Confessor has realized that the Swords of Air, Earth, and Death are in the hands of men loyal to King Hektor,” said Calliande. “Maybe he fears their power, and wants to fortify himself.”
“Or he knows that King Hektor will march on Urd Maelwyn no matter what,” said Ridmark. “Hektor has four of the Swords already – the Swords of Fire, Air, Earth, and Death. That leaves the Sword of Water in the hands of the Confessor, the Sword of Life carried by Rhodruthain, and the Sword of Shadows with the Masked One.”
“Fortunately, the Masked One of Xenorium is no threat to anyone,” said Parmenio. “The Confessor is the far greater danger.”
Ridmark and Calliande shared a look. Now that Ridmark knew to listen for that sentence, he had heard it a lot. When they had p
assed through the army camps near Castra Chaeldon and spoken with King Brasidas and King Aristotle, Ridmark had mentioned the Masked One a few times.
He had gotten the same response every single time.
The Masked One of Xenorium was no threat to anyone. What was more, people seemed to forget about the Masked One a few moments after he had been mentioned, their minds turning to other topics. Ridmark even felt it happening to himself, his thoughts turning to other matters.
If it was indeed a magical defense the Masked One had woven around himself, it was a formidable one. The unseen enemy was always the most dangerous…and how could a man fight an enemy he forgot about?
Still, the Confessor had an army equal in strength to that of Owyllain, and the Masked One did not, so the Confessor had to take priority.
Yet Ridmark wondered if that was somehow part of the Masked One’s plan.
“It is also possible,” said Calliande, “that the Confessor might wait until King Hektor is gathered to the arms of God.”
Kalussa frowned. “But my father will live another twenty or thirty years if God grants him the strength.”
“He might well live even longer,” said Calliande. “But what is that to a noble of the dark elves? The Confessor came here with the Sovereign fifteen thousand years ago. To someone like him, twenty or thirty years is like a long afternoon. And if King Hektor dies before he can destroy the Sword of Fire…what will happen then?”
“My brother Aesacus will become King and inherit the Sword of Fire,” said Kalussa.
“Will all the nobles and knights of Aenesium agree to that?” said Calliande. “One them might try to claim the Sword of Fire. And Prince Aesacus is Swordborn like you are, Kalussa. All of Hektor’s children will be Swordborn. They could inherit the Sword of Fire, but they would not be able to use its powers. The longer the Confessor waits, the more advantages he will pile up.”
“And you can win a war,” said Ridmark, “by piling up enough advantages. What does the Confessor want, though?”
Parmenio shrugged. “It is said that he desires to claim his master’s throne, to rebuild the Sovereign’s empire in his own name.”
“Is he a servant of the New God?” said Ridmark.
“I do not know, my lord,” said Parmenio. “King Justin claimed to oppose the New God…”
“He did,” said Krastikon.
“But he was advised by that Maledictus in the green robe,” said Parmenio. “And it is known that the Maledicti come and go freely from Urd Maelwyn. Perhaps the Confessor is their master.”
“Perhaps,” said Ridmark.
Another damned mystery. Between the origin of the Seven Swords, Rhodruthain’s motivations, the woman of the seven shards, Cathala’s secrets, the nature of the New God, and now the plans of the Confessor, Ridmark was drowning in damned mysteries. Just for once, he would like a straight answer to the questions that plagued him.
On the other hand, maybe he wouldn’t like the answers once he found them.
The raft reached the pier on the southern bank, and the ferrymen tied the ropes in place. Ridmark thanked the ferrymen, and he and his companions walked with Parmenio and his men through the gate and into the city of Aenesium. The city’s northern agora looked much as Ridmark remembered from his last visit. Inns and shops lined the square, and a dozen merchant stalls sold goods. Like the Monastery of St. Paul, most of the men living in the city seemed to be older or missing limbs, though unlike the monastery, women outnumbered men here.
“My lord, I must part from you here,” said Parmenio. “We must make our report to King Hektor at once. I imagine he will summon you soon.”
“No doubt,” said Ridmark. “But we wish to see our family first.”
“As do I,” said Parmenio. “It is past time I was reunited with my wife and concubine.”
Tamlin smiled. “It’s not hard to guess what kind of reunion you wish.”
“We must enjoy such reunions while we can, sir,” said Parmenio.
“Yes,” said Tamlin. Ridmark could tell he was thinking about Tirdua again. “We must.”
Parmenio bowed, and he and his men headed for the Palace of the High Kings.
Ridmark and the others followed Tamlin through the streets of Aenesium. The afternoon sun shone harsh overhead, and it was a hot and dusty day. Most of the people that Ridmark saw on the streets were either women, old or wounded men, or saurtyri servants going about their masters’ business. He knew that most of the healthy men of fighting age would be away with the army of Aenesium at Castra Chaeldon. How many women were there for every man in Aenesium? Two women for every man? Maybe even three?
Perhaps if the War of the Seven Swords ended, Owyllain would know peace for a time, and there would no longer be any need for the institution of concubinage to keep the realm’s population growing to meet the demands of war. It had been forced upon the men and women of Owyllain by necessity, but Ridmark knew that the festering madness he had seen in Rypheus Pendragon’s eyes had begun as the seething contempt the Prince felt for his father’s concubines and new Queen.
A short time later they entered a district of the city filled with two and three story houses of brick with roofs of clay tiles, the homes of Companion knights and minor nobles.
“And here we are,” said Tamlin, stopping before the door to his home. He raised his hand to knock, blinked, and then lowered his hand. “I always forget that I live here.”
He pushed open the door and stepped into the entry hall. As before, it remained bare and unadorned. Tamlin had no interest in decorating, and he spent more time in the field than he did here. A saurtyri was walking through the hall, and he stopped and blinked wide yellow eyes as they entered the domus.
“Greetings, Zuredek,” said Tamlin, a hint of his old easy manner returning. “I hope you are well.”
“Tamlin Lord,” said Zuredek with a choppy saurtyri bow. Ridmark still felt a little uneasy with how the entire saurtyri kindred seemed to work as servants for the men of Owyllain. Yet the saurtyri would not fight, even to defend themselves, and seemed to prefer a strong protector. For that matter, the saurtyri abandoned a master who mistreated them, and that was seen as a sign of ill fortune and impending disaster among the men of Owyllain. “I am well. I am pleased you are not slain. You are a good lord, and finding a new one would be onerous.”
Tamlin laughed. “You always put my troubles into perspective, Zuredek. Is Michael here?”
“Yes, Tamlin Lord,” said Zuredek. “He trains the young humans in the courtyard…”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than Calliande walked across the entry hall. Ridmark followed her to the inner courtyard of Tamlin’s house, a wide space paved in flagstones. The saurtyri had done a good job of cleaning up the bloodstains left by the attack of the abscondamni. Michael stood in the center of the courtyard, holding a wooden practice sword in his right hand. He had bright blue eyes, a lined, cheerful face, and a close-cropped white beard. His left leg was missing below the knee, with a thick wooden peg serving as a replacement foot. Despite that, the old man looked vigorous, his arms and chest thick, and many scars marked his forearms and heavy hands.
Gareth and Joachim Arban stood before him, both boys holding wooden swords as well. They looked taller than the last time Ridmark had seen them. Come to think of it, they were taller, Gareth especially. But Ridmark was just pleased to see that they were alive and healthy.
And to judge from the sweat on their faces, they had been enjoying themselves.
“Now, lads,” said Michael, spinning his wooden sword with the experience of long practice, “I think you’ve time for one more bout before it’s time for your lesson with Father Clement, and…”
Calliande stepped forward.
Michael blinked and lowered his sword. “Though it seems like we might be done for the day.”
Gareth and Joachim turned, and their eyes went wide.
“Mama!” Joachim shot across the courtyard like a crossbow bolt, his legs pum
ping, and he all but jumped into Calliande’s arms. She laughed, picked him up, and spun him around, her staff forgotten on the ground. Gareth jogged over, stopped a few paces, looked back and forth between Calliande and Ridmark.
“Father,” said Gareth, drawing himself up. He never liked to show emotion.
“Gareth,” said Ridmark with a nod.
“Master Michael said you won many great victories,” said Gareth.
“I had a lot of help,” said Ridmark. “And have you been listening to Michael and looking after your brother?”
“He has, my lord,” said Michael. He offered a shallow bow, using the practice sword to keep his balance on his wooden leg. “Good lads, these two. A little exuberant, but that can be forgiven in boys.”
“Good,” said Ridmark, and he put his hand on Gareth’s shoulder. “I knew I could count on you.”
For the first time, Gareth smiled.
“Mother?” said Joachim as Ridmark and Gareth walked to join him and Calliande. “You’re crying.”
“Yes,” said Calliande. She held Joachim with one arm and reached up to dab at her eyes. “Yes, but they’re happy tears.”
Chapter 3: Royal Counsel
The next morning Ridmark awoke in the guest room he shared with Calliande in Tamlin’s domus.
He sat up, blinking at the faint sunlight leaking through the shutters. Calliande’s side of the bed was empty. No doubt she had already awakened and would spend every available moment with the children until they had to leave Aenesium.
Because they would have to leave Aenesium soon.
The woman of the seventh shard awaited them somewhere south of Owyllain proper, and then Cathala in the ruins of the Monastery of St. James in the Tower Mountains. Perhaps they would find the key to the mysteries, and a way to take Gareth and Joachim back home to Andomhaim.
Ridmark rose, washed, shaved, and dressed, leaving his armor at the foot of the bed but buckling his sword belt and Oathshield’s scabbard around his waist. It was later than he would have liked, but he had stayed up late last night. Gareth and Joachim had related their experiences to Ridmark and Calliande, and Ridmark was more relieved than he could say to see his children happy and healthy. Michael and Father Clement had proven good taskmasters, not too lenient but not too harsh either, and Gareth had been serving as a page in the Palace of the High Kings between his lessons.
Sevenfold Sword: Shadow Page 5
