Heir to the Raven (The Pierced Veil, #1)

by J. Wesley Bush

  “You haven’t paid me yet. Where would I go?”

  “I believe you’re in earnest. It remains to be seen if you are correct. Until then, you will sing and jest for your bread.” A thin, reedy sound penetrated the walls of the undercroft. It took Timble a moment to recognize signal horns. “That will be Duke Lockridge. I have other duties, but a guard will release you soon. The king thanks you for your assistance.”

  Timble flashed a grin. “Nothing says gratitude like gold.”

  CHAPTER 11

  S elwyn watched Sir Chegatay drag the fool down into the undercroft, then ascended winding stairs to the broad, flat roof of the keep. A rounded godhall rose at the center, a stone version of the round tents the old Jandari had called home. Its silver-leaf dome shone in the blue light of Hikmet.

  He entered and passed through rows of stone benches, approaching a dais at the end of the room. An intricately-painted throne sat atop it, bathed in blue moonlight from a glazed window high atop the dome. Amid the glass, he could just see the ancient glyph that stood for God, an oval atop a vertical line. They called it the Mace of God, or the High King's Scepter, or less reverently, the Drumstick.

  Clark Istvan had prepared the room and candles already burned in their holders. A rough, white shift hung from an empty wall sconce. Selwyn skinned down and donned the shift, and then put on hempen sandals he found just below it. Footsteps on stone announced the clark’s arrival.

  “Is your heart prepared, child?” Clark Istvan asked, a phial of oil cupped in his palm.

  No one else seems to think so, Selwyn thought, but he nodded all the same. “Yes, Teacher.”

  “Then come forward.” The old man led Selwyn to the godthrone and bade him to kneel. “You have in truth slain an aksu-kal with your own hand?”

  “I have.”

  “Then only the war of the spirit remains.” Clark Istvan uncapped the phial and anointed Selwyn’s forehead with the Mace of God glyph. “Remain vigilant this night, child, and search your heart. If you discover you cannot fulfill the duties of chivalry, there will be some shame, but not so great as if you fail in those duties.” He placed a grandfatherly hand on Selwyn’s shoulder and then treaded slowly for the door.

  By the time the first candle guttered out, the stone of the chapel floor was grinding into Selwyn’s knees. Already his calves were cramped and sore. He did his best to focus, kneeling with his forehead pressed to the clay prayer disk, either speaking to God or else imagining the deeds he would perform as a knight. No doubt most thought of winning tourneys or fighting battles, but he saw himself defeating scholars from the Imperial university. In his mind’s eye they always wore green hoods, with amphiserpent rings on their pale fingers. However, it was so hard to focus, with guilt at failing Wicke and Father and worry about an invasion driving holy things far from his mind.

  The door to the chapel creaked open. Probably his sister coming to keep him company. “Helaena, you shouldn’t be here.”

  “It is not Helaena.”

  Selwyn opened his eyes and looked back to find Garzei Harlowe standing in the entry. “Father,” he said, rising awkwardly. The blood rushed back into his legs, burning fiercely. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes,” Father said with uncharacteristic gentleness. “Many things are wrong. Now have a seat on the altar before you fall over.”

  “But the vigil…”

  “God will understand.” His father sat down on the marble dais and Selwyn joined him. “I have come one last time to convince you not to run off.”

  “Run off?” Selwyn felt his pulse quicken in anger. “How can you say that, especially here in the godhall? To serve the Order is to serve God.”

  “Perhaps once. Now it’s a stuffed leopard — beautiful, majestic even, but dead and full of rubbish inside.” The flat of his hand smacked the marble between them. “Your place is here, with us. War may be coming and your family will need you.”

  “The Order needs me. If what you say is true, then it needs good men.”

  “We need good men. How dare you abandon us? Your life is here.”

  “I have nothing here, Father. Years of serving my brother, attending funerals and weddings in his place? A lifetime of Ardashir and your hearthguard making sport of me? That’s no life at all.”

  “Nothing for you here? No life at all?” The earlier gentleness was gone, replaced by grim tones Selwyn knew and feared. “Then your mother is nothing. Your House is nothing. I am nothing.” Father’s voice never rose, which made it more frightening. “To the Abyss with you then.” Father stood, straightened his darenga, and strode to the door. “A knight from your Order arrived an hour ago. You’ll be dubbed on the morrow and leave straight after your feast. I would be done with you sooner, but won’t have any man say I slighted your investiture.”

  “Father, wait!” Selwyn felt sick in his gut. “I didn’t mean—”

  “You meant precisely what you said.” The door shut behind him.

  Selwyn stood to follow, but pride and the restrictions of the vigil kept him in place. Father doesn’t understand. He could have, but I said it all wrong.

  The rest of the vigil was wasted. He tried to focus on prayer or meditation, but instead played out conversations with his father. Little time remained to heal the rift. Who knew when he would be back to Nineacre? Try as he might, though, no words came to him. Selwyn had his pride, and Father had even more.

  CHAPTER 12

  H elaena stood by as Father practiced archery from the Garrison Tower with King Randolf, Duke Lockridge, and their hearthguards. Servants had set target butts on the riverbank, and it was a joy to watch arrows fly true over the river.

  Father didn’t invite her to join, as he normally would, but she didn’t blame him. King Randolf was a terrible archer even when his hand wasn’t cut, and it wouldn’t do for a girl to outshoot him.

  “You look as weary as me,” Duke Lockridge said to Sir Gladwin. “I was riding all night. What kept you from your bed?”

  “Best spoken in private, Your Grace.”

  The king tittered. “Gladwin’s convinced we’re soon to be invaded by Belgorsk,” he said, laboring to string his own bow. It was a graceful, recurved masterpiece of horn and wood that was probably old when Helaena’s grandsire was born. She felt lust in her heart. “But his only witness is a jester claiming to come from Leax’s court.”

  Duke Lockridge nocked an arrow and loosed it. “And you remain unconvinced.”

  “Leax has no pretext for war, and we’re cousins. Gladwin is taking the word of a jester, by Avishag! Only a fool heeds a fool.”

  Gladwin looked out over the river, his expression blank. Helaena admired his honor and loyalty. It was hardly the first time King Randolf had shamed his hearthguard, but Gladwin never betrayed the oaths with so much as an angry glance.

  “I’ve not known Sir Gladwin’s judgment to err, Your Majesty” Father said quietly, sending an arrow singing into his target. “Leax has spent his entire reign at war, subduing the clans of the Seventy Hills. With that accomplished, perhaps he grows bored. And there is the river blockade to consider. Hardly the act of a friend. Not to mention the attempt on your life.”

  An arrow from Duke Lockridge took his target just outside the bullseye. He shook his head. “Belgorsk has always resented our river duties. I think the blockade makes more sense as a protest than an act of war.” He turned to Father. “It’s a foolish choice, to be sure, and more harmful to Belgorsk than us. But Leax is a bloody great oaf and foolish choices are the only kind he makes.”

  “Let us not forget that the assassin was a Mauntell knight,” the king said.

  Helaena rolled her eyes. All that means is that whoever compelled the knight was most certainly not Mauntell. It could be anyone.

  It was no surprise that Lockridge disagreed with Father. Within the noble houses, both were famous for their honor and piety, but those were the only things they had in common. Father wanted a return to the ancient, nomadic Jandari ways, whil
e Lockridge tried to be more modern and Oberyn than even the Oberyn. “What proof did the jester bring?” asked Lockridge, taking up another arrow. “Some parchment winkled from the king’s chancellor?”

  Gladwin opened his mouth to speak, but King Randolf cut him short. “None, save the honorable word of a fool.”

  “As much as that?”

  “Nonetheless,” Father said, holding up an arrow to exam its feathers. “It costs us little to prepare. The conciliator should dispatch spies for Belgorsk immediately.”

  “No!” King Randolf raised a bandaged hand. “We have ordered the conciliator to focus exclusively on uncovering who sent Sir Omedh. His every eye is focused on that task.”

  Father scowled. “We should at least marshal a reserve. I will pay to barrack them in the March.”

  King Randolf drew a lace square from inside his doublet and blew his nose. He was allergic to the savanna and suffered every time they visited Nineacre. Jandari blood runs thin in his veins. “There shall be no marshaling. That could provoke the very war you fear.”

  “Please reconsider— “

  “Enough, Harlowe! If you fear war is coming, then best be quiet and practice your bowmanship. We’ll hear no more of this.”

  CHAPTER 13

  L arissa paced the bedchamber, waiting to be called to the feast. The prospect of supper with a king was terrifying. People say nobles have more rules for eating than you can count. Perhaps she could just claim to be fasting or taken sick.

  Knuckles rapped on the door.

  “Yes, m’lord?”

  “It’s Tancred the Magus. May I enter?”

  Larissa smoothed her dress and opened the door. “Of course.” She tried curtsying while stepping aside, doing neither effectively. He was tall, a little frightening, and it felt as if half her wits fled in his presence. He was also eerily pale. Father had said Easterners were pinkish, but Tancred and that little jester were the first she had seen.

  “Is this a good time to talk? I imagine you have questions.”

  Larissa nodded mutely.

  “Then let us walk. Garzei Harlowe is more honorable than most, but even here the walls may have ears.” He led her from the room and up a winding staircase. “They call this one the Dowager Tower,” he said conversationally. “Though the old lady rarely stays here. Doesn’t get on well with Duchess Alethea.” A maid stood to the side as they passed, watching the magus with wide eyes. At the top floor was a large, open room with benches, lap tables, and spools for needlework. A timber ladder led up through a trapdoor.

  Tancred released her arm and climbed the ladder. “No one will disturb us up here.”

  Taking the rungs carefully, Larissa joined him on top of the tower. Only a few clouds obscured the stars, and both moons were out. The magus leaned casually against the battlements, watching her with interest. Next to him was a contraption that looked like an overgrown crossbow. “What’s that?”

  “A triggerfish. The duke has a few mounted on each tower to discourage the neighbors from visiting unannounced.” He smiled benevolently. “Is this your first time at any real height?”

  She nodded uneasily, not straying an inch from the trapdoor.

  “If you’re to be a pactmaker, you must learn to face your fears. Come.” He held out a hand.

  Larissa crossed to him and gripped the hand. “There you are,” he told her gently. “Just take hold of this merlon. It’s stone, so you have no risk of falling.”

  She obeyed, though her mind whirled at the sight of so much air between her and the ground. “Goodness. The castle didn’t look so tall from down there.”

  “What we see of life is often determined by where we stand. It is beautiful though, isn’t it?”

  After a moment, Larissa calmed enough to notice. “It’s lovely…” she said softly. And it was. Moonlight brought a glow from the pale stone of the wall. The waters of the Green Lady flowed inky black around the castle and grass waved on the plains as far as one could see. Upriver, the town sat in miniature, hearth fires glowing through windows.

  “Stay close to me and learn diligently. You can always have this view, the world spread out at your feet.”

  Larissa glanced up at him. “But you serve the king.”

  The magus brushed fringe from her eyes. “I do. And the king serves the realm, does he not? Yet no one could say his life is deprived.” He sat on the battlement between two merlons. “A lowborn’s hope to advance in this life is usually through battle, but we faietouched have another route. While we can never rule in name, we have more real power than any lord, no matter how many generations he can trace his name.”

  “I don’t want power. Bugger, I’d be happy to get through dinner without embarrassing myself.” She blushed at the curse. “Begging your pardon.”

  “That is probably for the best. Power will come to you naturally and there is no need to seek it out. In fact, ambition holds special dangers for the faietouched.”

  “Lady Helaena told me. Said I’d like as not go bad.”

  That brought a laugh from the magus. “I doubt she said it quite like that, but there is danger. You aren’t my first apprentice. Before you was Kolos.”

  “That’s my little brother’s name.”

  “You wouldn’t want this Kolos for your kin.” He patted the spot next to him, and she took a seat, though not without a nervous glance at the ground below. “Kolos was a boy from the Shield Forest, not much older than you when he arrived. He was hungry, and his hunger seemed to grow over time. He wandered from the path and began dealing with dark faie. Sadly, he was clever enough to hide it from me until it was too late.”

  “Why too late?”

  “Sacrifice,” the magus whispered. “He drained the blood of dozens — lonely widows, farmers come to market, anyone unlikely to be missed. There is little eldritch dignity in such sacrifices, but it allowed him to continue pacting.”

  “That’s horrible! Why would he do that?” Men fought sometimes in Far Ingarsby, but they never murdered.

  “All spells are powered either through pacts with faie, or from our reservoirs. Most of us have only a small reservoir, and it fills slowly, so we depend on power from the faie. Kolos was angry and greedy, and the light outer faie rejected him, so he turned to the dark.”

  He fell silent, pain marking his expression. Finally, he waved it off. “Enough. Lady Helaena says you discovered your power during a Vyr raid. How did it manifest? Did you heal a wounded neighbor? Move some object with a word?”

  Larissa shook her head quickly. “Nothing like that, Lord Magus. It’s just… a woman offered to help drive away the Vyr. Well, it sounded like a woman, though I couldn’t see any shapes.”

  He seized her arm so tightly it hurt. “What do you mean, offered to help you? How did you contact her?”

  “I don’t know! I got this itchy feeling in my brain and followed it. A voice came out of the colors.”

  “Did she give you a name?”

  “No. The Vyr were killing us. It was a short talk.”

  “Don’t be impudent. Did she ask you to make a sacrifice?”

  “No, m’lord, I swear. Just made me promise to do a favor sometime.” A horrible thought struck her. “Neptha’s teats! Was she a bad faie?”

  The magus held up a palm. “We cannot know until she makes her request; however, be wary of invoking the name of Neptha. She is a dark faie and you could draw her unintentionally.”

  Keeping her face level like she did when Mother scolded, Larissa thought back to the Vyr raid. Queasiness rose in her throat. Her last words before the itchy feeling came had been foul Avishag’s name three times. I owe a dark faie. Magus could kill me if he finds out. “I thought Neptha was a false goddess,” Larissa said, trying to shift the subject. “That’s what the priest said once.”

  “Heathen nations worship the outer faie as gods, but we know them to be creations of the High King of Heaven. Dark outer faie deceive the unwary into worship, from which they gain strength.” He help
ed her off the battlement. “Of course, if you ask a worshiper of Neptha, he would say we’re deceived by our faie and there is no High King at all.”

  A thousand questions competed in her mind. “Why am I a pactmaker? Where does it come from?”

  “Someone in your lineage made love to a great faie. You understand what I mean?”

  Larissa nodded impatiently.

  “Human and great faie matings yield one of three things. Underfaie are by far the most common, giving the world harpies, green leapers, and other terrors. Next are changelings, equally human and faie. In the rarest of cases, human and faie breed true and a great faie is born. Not all with faie blood can make pacts, but all pacters have faie blood – the more, the stronger.”

  Larissa frowned as she committed it all to memory. She had long wondered about these things.

  Magus examined the triggerfish, running his fingers over the gears. “What else do you know about Trosketh? If you would advise kings, there is much to learn of the world.”

  “I know the Empire is evil, the rest of the east near as bad, and to never barter with a Coasterman.”

  The magus laughed, and some of her fear receded. “That’s a good foundation, but perhaps we can expand upon it. For example, why is the Oberyn Empire evil?”

  Larissa frowned, and scraped at lichen on the stone beside her. What a stupid question. Why not ask why eights were bad or autumns rainy? “Everyone knows it is.”

  “Including the emperor?”

  “Well, no. But he’s working for the dark faie. Just like Emperor Orrick Baldricson when he caused the Great Rupture.” She felt proud at remembering his family name.

  Magus sighted the triggerfish, tracking a guard on the opposite tower. “Factions and corruption had already poisoned the Commonwealth. Orrick’s greed and ambition merely finished it off. He wasn’t evil, so much as human.”

  Larissa’s pulse quickened. She wanted so much for Tancred to like her, but hated losing an argument. “But he said he was a god. That’s evil.”