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

by J. Wesley Bush

  “He claimed to be God’s regent in this world, though admittedly the difference is small. Orrick fused worldly and holy rule into one, and made himself lord of both. The ensuing rebellion birthed the many Oberyn kingdoms.”

  It took a moment for Larissa to puzzle out some of the Oberyn words. “And the Eastmark Confederation?”

  “They split from him as well, though they’ve rarely agreed on anything else.” He sent the triggerfish spinning on its axis. “Division is the curse of Covenant lands. United they could have brought down the emperor, but instead they worried only about their own houses and lands. In the centuries since, the Empire has overrun both Dandrenor and Irmgaard, and converted pagan Sigga, my homeland, at swordpoint.”

  “Could the Empire ever come here?”

  “Not so long as the Swans bar their way. Only Belgorsk can reach us, and they couldn’t hold Jandaria on their own, especially while you and I watch over her.”

  CHAPTER 14

  S elwyn came late to breakfast on his knighting day. He had avoided Father in the day since their argument in the chapel, afraid of making things worse and fearing the man’s anger and disdain. Seeing Ardashir and Reyhan still at the high table, Selwyn turned to leave.

  “Brother!” Ardashir called. “Father’s gone spare – I’ve never seen him so angry. Come tell us all about it.”

  Selwyn limped to the table, shaking his head dejectedly. “He’s still upset?”

  “You could say that,” Sir Reyhan mumbled around a bite of sausage. “Mentioned how convenient it was to have the king here. Seems he won’t have to travel far to have you stripped of your name.” After a moment, he added a belated, “M’lord.”

  “I’ll talk to Father after breakfast.”

  “Not likely,” Ardashir said, waving his mug. “He’s gone hunting this morning and said not to expect him ‘til supper.”

  “Said he felt like killing something,” Reyhan added helpfully.

  Selwyn kept busy the rest of the day, searching for anything to keep his mind from the break with Father. He leashed Clapperclaw and exercised the troll, his old friend loping happily, talons clattering on the flagstones. Then he brushed down his new destrier, guilt festering as he thought about the small fortune Father had paid for the horse. After, Selwyn wandered the castle, saying goodbye to it, eventually coming to the Dowager Tower.

  “A pity your grandmother won’t be here to see you off.” His mother, Alethea, joined him at the tower door.

  “I thought to leave a note in her chambers.”

  “That was considerate. I think your father might do the same with you.”

  Selwyn entered the public room to find its hearth cold, leaving the chamber in darkness. He sat in a cowhide chair and rested head in hands. “I spoke hastily.”

  Alethea stood over him, stroking the back of his head. “You are too much alike. That’s why you fight.”

  “We’re both prideful and stubborn.”

  A soft laugh. “No, that’s common to all men, in my experience. Both of you love inordinately. Devote yourselves without measure.” Her fingers brushed through his hair. “For you, it’s service to God and some long-dead Commonwealth. For your father, it’s family and tradition. A blade would hurt less than your words.”

  A sob ascended in his chest, but Selwyn fought it down. “Please forgive me.”

  He could hear a smile in her voice. “It’s not mine to forgive, love. Be humble. Speak with your father when he returns.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  That evening, Selwyn waited by the dock for his father. Shouts and the bustle of cooks resounded from the kitchens as they prepared the feast, but he had no appetite. Just after dark, the hunting party ferried across to the castle, and Father and Duke Lockridge entered the gates mounted on coursers, the pet cheetah loping behind them. “Father,” Selwyn called out respectfully, removing his hat and clutching it to his chest. “May I speak with you?”

  “That was a fine reedbuck you took,” Father told Lockridge, riding past without a glance. “It’s rare to find them so far downriver.” The only response Selwyn got was the road apples that tumbled from his father’s horse.

  It was almost time for his dubbing. Selwyn trudged to his chambers, where a squire helped him don freshly-shined plate armor. A blank shield rested on the bed, alongside a tabard stripped of the Harlowe sigil, leaving ragged threads in place of a rearing stallion.

  Once dressed, he followed the squire up to the roof and then into the chapel. The royal family stood with the Lockridges and Harlowes on the right side of the room, while lesser lights took up the left. Among them, Selwyn noticed a fair-haired knight of the Order. That is my future. I only have to get through tonight, and it will all be worth it.

  Clark Istvan held out his arms, palms upward. “Squire Harlowe, come forward and take your oaths.”

  After a deep breath, Selwyn limped to the altar and knelt.

  “Do you vow, in sight of God and the realm, to serve your liege lord honorably?”

  “I do.”

  “To defend the faith against all threats, both within and without?”

  “I do.”

  “To aid and protect any who are deserving?”

  “I do.”

  “Very well. Brother Addison?”

  He realized sadly that Father would not do the dubbing. His anger must run terribly deep if it overcame his commitment to tradition.

  The Order knight’s booted feet echoed in the chapel. He loomed over Selwyn and drew a bastard sword. “In the name of God, I dub you Sir Selwyn, knight of Covenant and Crown, and servant of all. Rise and join your peers.”

  Selwyn was a knight, but it felt incomplete. It should have been Father. Damn him for refusing.

  Well-wishers thronged to the front: retainers not seen in years, cousins from distant fiefs, and two uncles. Baron Waldrich Swan, his maternal uncle, was practically a giant and second only to King Bertram in the Swanlands. He buffeted Selwyn on the pauldrons with melon-sized fists. “Welcome to manhood, nephew!” he roared as Selwyn worked to keep his footing.

  Rupert Harlowe, on the other hand, only slurred a few kind words and then melted back into the crowd. He was a pathetic shadow of his brother Garzei but had always been kind.

  Selwyn thanked them all as quickly as politeness allowed, and tried to join his father, but Duke Harlowe was already leaving the chapel. Mother gave him a sad glance and then followed her husband.

  A page intercepted Selwyn at the door. “My lord, Duke Harlowe said you have to wait in your room,” the tiny lad said nervously. “I’m s’posed to tell you when to come.”

  Selwyn nodded. “Very well.” Once in his room, he changed into a red and white doublet, the colors of House Harlowe. Let Father make of it what he will. After a long wait, the page tapped on the door. “He said to come, my lord.”

  They descended the Duke’s Tower and crossed to the keep. Approaching the stout oaken doors, Selwyn expected to hear merriment from inside, but the room could have been empty for all the sound emerging. He entered to a somber atmosphere. The minstrel’s gallery was empty and the only performer in sight was a bard in the center of the room. He was blind and dressed in an animal-hide darenga. Father loved the chant-singing of the orzari, though few of them still lived.

  Dukes Harlowe and Lockridge flanked the king at the high table, with the royal family to the right and Harlowes to the left. Helaena waved sadly from the end of the bench, and Selwyn realized there was no place for him at the table.

  Plain wooden trestles covered in linen extended from the dais down either side of the room. No platters of food had arrived, only bread and wine. The page led Selwyn to a spot just below the spice box, another calculated insult. Selwyn took a seat between the Order knight and Uncle Waldrich.

  Waldrich Swan chortled and clapped Selwyn on the back with his massive paw. He had a laugh like a signal trumpet and all the decorum of a cavalry charge. “You horsefolk might be half-civilized, but you’re bra
ve. Taking on an aksu-kal like that, bugger me!” Mother always said Waldrich Swan was just like a castle wall: big, coarse, and rather dense.

  “I’m Brother Addison,” the knight said, saluting with a half-eaten chunk of bread. “And congratulations on your knighthood. Though you’re a mite younger than expected.

  Selwyn choked down a swig of wine. “I can still go with you, right?”

  “Aye. The Scholastics aren’t about to turn you away – they danced a jig about the treatise you submitted.”

  “God be good, talk about something entertaining,” Uncle Waldrich cut in. “It’s bad enough your father hired this blind bore. Where are the acrobats and dancing girls?”

  The orzari wound into another verse, strumming a short gittern made for horseback. Selwyn recognized the song and knew it was anything but accidental. Ogkhan vai Ekver hailed from a time when Jandari still ranged the savanna and fought with and beside their Vyr cousins. It was a story of betrayal, of a brother who chased a prized sable rather than rescue his brother from death.

  Selwyn filled his drinking horn and raised it to the high table. Father was masterful as ever — even the night’s entertainment was a reminder that Selwyn was abandoning his brother.

  “Enjoy yourself,” Brother Addison told Selwyn, leaning back as a servant placed trenchers before them. “On Bulwark Isle, novices drink nothing stronger than watered wine.”

  A host of servants appeared from behind the wooden screen that blocked the kitchens from view. The feast was so large that some of the house girls had been pressed into service, their kitchen livery scrounged and ill-fitting. Tray after tray came forth: braised kudu, a giant pike taken from the Green Lady, pies of organ meats, even a baked cockatrice contrived from a heron and a piglet. Duke Harlowe might be punishing his son, but the guests would have no cause for complaint.

  “Who’s that flower at the high table?” Waldrich asked.

  Selwyn noticed the girl among the royal party for the first time. Perhaps fifteen, she was petite, with an olive complexion and large, dark eyes. “That’s Sofia Vaudrey, daughter to an Aventir duchess. We met during my university year.”

  Addison nodded. “With Aventir in a succession crisis, she’s probably bait for an alliance. Her mum needs a son-in-law with light cavalry.”

  “I wager your elder brother is the sort of catch she’s looking for,” Uncle Waldrich said, out of breath from the pace of eating. “Your father’s lost two sons already, and now you’re taking vows of bleeding celibacy. With the dynasty depending on Ardashir, his days of freedom are numbered.”

  Jealousy stabbed at Selwyn’s heart. He knew it was pointless: after all, he didn’t want the life Aardashir would have. Yet it rankled him all the same. Ardashir gets everything. And he can be such a bastard.

  “Having second thoughts?” Brother Addison must have read his expression.

  “Just counting the cost. Is it worth it?”

  Addison took a long drink of wine before answering. “For me it was,” he said quietly. “My father is a household knight on a stony island no one bothers raiding. And I’m the third son.” He smiled. “Besides, it’s a grand world and I wanted to see it all.”

  “And have you?”

  “Enough of it,” Addison replied. “Granted, mostly as a glorified caravan guard, but nevertheless. I’ve seen the Manticore King. Crossed the Sand Road and walked among the Pillars of Zangato. Once I even visited the Floating City and put eyes on Gameshu Isle!”

  In the center of the room, the orzari was killing off Ogkhan, fingers skimming over the gittern as he sang of the battle. He built to a wailing crescendo as Ekver cut his own throat out of shame. Selwyn gave thanks as the hideous song ended.

  A servant led the orzari from the hall, and Selwyn noticed minstrels filtering into the gallery overhead. At the same time, the chief cook brought a silver trencher from the kitchens. It would have some choice piece of meat. The cook set the trencher between Duke Harlowe and the king, and then backed away respectfully, careful not to turn his back until reaching the dividing screen. By tradition, the lord always shared a choice portion with his newly-created knight, symbolizing the sustenance he provided. With King Randolf there, they would have to include him as well.

  Father stood and raised his cup. “If anything is more important than family, I am unaware of it. This life is struggle and pain. Family is all we can rely upon. Please join me in a drink to my precious son and heir, Ardashir Harlowe.” The hall raised their cups in salute. “Ardashir, please share this meat with the king and me.”

  Before Ardashir could respond, Sir Maddox entered from the kitchens and interrupted. “Apologies, Duke Harlowe.” He hurried to Duke Lockridge and whispered intently. Lockridge scowled and then stood. “Continue without us, Harlowe. I must speak with the king in private.” The king followed Lockridge through the curtains into the solar.

  Father glared at their retreating backs, seeming not to care who noticed. Spearing a hunk of meat with his dagger, he handed it to Ardashir. “To my true and most loyal son.” Then he tossed a morsel to the cheetah curled at his feet. By the time they finished eating, the king had still not returned. “Minstrels,” Duke Harlowe called, his voice slurring a bit. “Play us something festive. I think the ladies are inclined to dance!”

  Sounds of the flute, zither and bladder pipe soon filled the hall. Sofia Vaudrey led the king’s daughters to the floor, while Ardashir, Father, and Mother joined them. Arranged in a circle, the dancers sidestepped three times to the left, and then to the right. Then each clapped and turned about.

  “Your father and brother are both cockeyed,” Uncle Waldrich said. “Don’t think I’ve seen Garzei drunk before.”

  It was true. During the passes, Father jostled Mother, while Ardashir stumbled over the trail of Sofia’s dress.

  Suddenly, his brother clutched the girl’s arm, neck arched backward and face constricted in a horrifying smile. His knees buckled, and he fell to the floor writhing. Duke Harlowe took a step toward his son, but his legs gave way and soon he was flailing on the floor as well.

  A yellow flash drew his attention to the high table, where the cheetah had leaped atop it and was thrashing about, making strangled chirruping sounds.

  “Clark Istvan! Magus! Help them!” Mother screamed, kneeling beside her husband. “Get them a purgative. Bring them something!”

  The room seemed too bright and too dim at once. Selwyn stood from the bench and ran to his family. Both men looked as if invisible hands were wrenching them to and fro, their backs arching and relaxing like snakes. Selwyn took his father by the shoulders, trying to hold him down. “Father, Father, listen to me!” He wanted to make things right, but terror froze his tongue. The black of Duke Harlowe’s eyes were tiny points and his lips were blue. A dark stain of urine spread across his darenga. Selwyn tore free his own cloak and covered up his father’s shame.

  Then the magus was beside him. He placed a hand on Father’s throat and closed his eyes. Selwyn watched his lips move soundlessly, and allowed himself to hope. The magus was pacting. After several agonizing moments, the magus cursed in frustration. “The poison is magical! I lack the strength to help him.”

  A crack like a snapping tree branch drew Selwyn’s attention to his brother. Ardashir stared sightlessly into the rafters, head lolling freely from a broken neck.

  Duke Harlowe seemed ready to do the same, his back curved and strained like a longbow just before release. One hand grasped his throat, while the other clawed at the air. Selwyn pressed his father down against the flagstones. “Hold his head still!” he commanded Mother, searching frantically for help. “Where in the Abyss is the Clark?”

  “He’s run to the infirmary for an elixir.”

  Blue lips grunted out a few syllables. Father’s eyes were crimson with burst vessels and pleaded blindly with Selwyn for aid. The wrenching of his back grew feeble and after a few wheezing breaths, he was gone. Only then did Selwyn hear the screams of women, the frantic bark of a hunti
ng hound, and shouted accusations from the men. Royal guards were drawing swords, as were Harlowe men. Selwyn’s mind felt jellied. None of it seemed real.

  A strong hand gripped his doublet. His mother’s face loomed into view. “You must lead,” she whispered fiercely.

  Selwyn stumbled to his feet, barely holding down the bile in his stomach. “Sheathe your swords, all of you!” he shouted. Lockridge and the king stared dumbfounded from the entrance to the solar. “Sir Gladwin, take the king to his chambers and safeguard him there!” He stepped on to the dais and surveyed the room. Men and women still wept, but the swords were disappearing into scabbards and someone had quieted that blasted hound. “Reyhan!” The hearthguard looked up from Ardashir’s body with tear-stained eyes. “Go secure the kitchens. Ensure no one leaves.”

  All at once it felt as if the floor were pulling him down. Selwyn gripped the table, but his knees seemed to have no strength. Then Helaena was there, supporting him by an arm. “You can do this,” she said, only for him.

  Selwyn straightened and looked to the castellan. “Sir Chegatay, lock and guard the gate and postern. No one leaves the castle, except the king’s party. And find out if anyone has recently departed. Do you understand?” Chegatay nodded and ran for the door.

  In the center of the room, Harlowe knights were wrapping the bodies with cloaks, while a lady’s maid tried to prise Mother from her husband. Once the bodies were concealed, every eye in the room turned to Selwyn.

  With dread, he realized they would be looking to him for the rest of his life.

  CHAPTER 15

  L arissa followed Sir Gladwin as he patrolled the royal camp, ensuring the king was secure. They had fled Nineacre Castle while the duke’s body was still cooling. The royal troops were all on watch, and even the kennel master was awake, trailing a brace of hunting hounds whose baying filled the night sky. No assassin was going to reach the king.

  “Appreciate you joining me on rounds, Larissa. Since you’re now part of the household, I thought it important we get to know each other.”