“Larissa! My Queen has a message for you. She looks forward to your service and will call upon you soon.” Larissa sucked in a breath, her heart seeming to thump and freeze at once.
The witch’s head dropped and then swiveled to face the magus once more. “And Tancred, Avishag has often spoken of you. She says that—”
The dagger sliced through her throat, reducing the words to a painful red gurgle. Bound hands rose to the severed arteries, but her broken fingers could do nothing to staunch the flow of blood. Magus cleaned his blade on the ragged blouse of her dress and then pushed her to the ground.
It took several minutes for the witch to bleed out. By the end, her eyes had rolled back and she flopped feebly, just like when they killed sick sheep back home. Larissa watched the chest struggle to rise one last time and then heard her last rattling breath. In some unexplainable way, she could sense the woman’s spirit was gone. Yet something gleamed on the corpse. At first, Larissa thought it must be a trick of the light, but it was somehow within the skull. Acting on instinct, Larissa knelt and touched the light, coaxing it out with her fingers. As she stood it swelled and grew, until a pale, twisted image of the witch stood before her. This is what her soul looked like, Larissa realized.
The guards fell back in terror, weapons raised. Magus stepped close and grasped her arm.
She knew she should be afraid but felt only curiosity. “Is it a ghost?” The apparition looked forlornly down at its body.
“There is no such thing as ghosts,” Magus said. “This is residuum, the fleeting remains of a soul once it has left the body. It appears we have found another of your talents – residuum interrogation. A residuum specter always speaks the truth as it understands it.”
“It can hear me?”
“Of course I can hear you, Larissa.” Empty eye sockets peered at her. “Avishag has mentioned you often. A changeling is a rare find. Tarlathion and other gods hope to claim you, but Avishag has a head start after saving your village, doesn’t she?”
Larissa was suddenly glad for Tancred’s steadying hand as the world seemed to shift beneath her feet. She was in debt to a dark faie. It took a moment, but she straightened once more and gathered thick phlegm in her throat. With all the skill the dusty savanna had taught her, Larissa spat a gobbet through the witch’s eye. “Go to the Abyss. I’ll never serve the dark ones.”
Tancred pulled her back from the specter. “You need not argue. This is only a shadow, not the witch.”
“I didn’t know it was Avishag who made me the deal, I promise! Are they going to kill me?” Larissa glanced fearfully at the guards, who seemed to be wondering the same thing.
“No. You gave no sacrifice to the dark faie and made your pact in ignorance. But let us leave this place.” Tancred scouted around a moment and picked up a sizable rock, then approached the corpse and bashed it repeatedly until the face collapsed into a red mush. The specter wailed and disappeared like morning mist. “The residuum requires an intact container,” he said calmly, taking Larissa’s arm in his own.
They left the gravediggers to their work. On the way out of the blightyard, Tancred left the trail, riding out to a distant funeral stone. “Kolos, my apprentice.”
“What does it say?” A few of the words were known to her now, but not enough to make sense of it. She could tell some of the words were names. The date was from nine months before.
“It begins with those he saved, a child stricken with pox, a village’s crops spared from yellow rust…” He sighed. “Just below the midpoint the narrative changes and becomes a litany of victims.” Tancred bowed his head. She saw that his cheeks were wet. “What’s unwritten is that I failed him as a mentor. I should have seen the path he was taking and turned him aside.”
“He made the choice. It wasn’t your fault.”
“I was responsible for him.”
They left the stone and rode in silence for quite some time before Larissa asked, “Why go to the dark faie at all? Why risk going mad?”
“Because there is much that a light faie will not do. You must convince them a pact is in the High King’s will. Dark faie will do anything in their power, anything, so long as you provide a sacrifice with sufficient eldritch dignity. Men are selfish, so the dark faie are of much more use to them.”
“And the dark ones twist them.” The light was failing, but Larissa could just see the city gates ahead.
“It is their nature to twist us. Evil has warped them, and our frail minds and bodies are warped in kind. Only the strongest pactmakers can treat with them often and retain their sanity.”
Dark thoughts roiled her stomach the whole way back to Chimkant, until she nearly threw up all over the horse’s neck. Avishag knew her by name.
CHAPTER 25
W icke’s Keep was busy as a termite mound, its walls and courtyards thronged with workmen and soldiers. Selwyn watched from his old chamber in the South Tower, gratified to be to doing right by Lord Wicke, for his mentor’s castle was close upon the Belgorshan border and would be the first to challenge any incursion. If Leax invaded Jandaria, he would need the river to supply his men, so he couldn’t afford to bypass the keep.
Thus Selwyn had returned home, bringing barges of timber and stone, masons and workmen to strengthen the walls. It was hard to think over the din of hammers. The stolid master mason called orders as workmen reinforced the gates, while carpenters built new hourds atop the walls, wooden outcroppings that allowed defenders to drop boiling water and other miseries on anyone approaching the castle.
He sat by the window at a desk covered in books and maps. It was odd being back in his old room, with its lumpy bed and the small trophies of youth: horseshoes, a gazelle antler, a charcoal sketch of the river. His mentor had offered him the Lord’s Room, but Selwyn would have none of it – Wicke was the closest thing to a father he had left and deserved reverence.
Alethea rapped lightly on the door before entering. “Am I interrupting?”
“No, I wish you were. Can’t seem to concentrate on my reading.”
She brushed at the bed before sitting down. “Memories can make it hard to think on anything else.”
“This room holds a lot of them. I wish… I wish I had never left it.”
Her smile was knowing. “You blame yourself.”
“Sometimes I do.” Selwyn flipped the book shut and pushed it aside. “Wicke told me to wait. I was the one who ran off to the hunt. No aksu-kal, no knighthood. No knighthood, no feast.”
“No feast, no assassination. I understand, but you could not have foreseen this.”
“It isn’t just the feast. I should have listened to Father about the Knights-Scholastic. Our last words were angry, and he died disappointed in me.”
“I’m afraid he did,” she said, giving his knee a pat. “But you have the chance to redeem yourself by being a worthy successor. He will see that from his place in the High King’s retinue.”
Selwyn nodded, then laughed bitterly. “The amphiserpent.”
“Excuse me?”
“That was going to be life’s work with the Knights-Scholastic – arguing that Baldric never slew a great faie, only a lesser one. Wicke even thought I might be able to cast doubt on Baldric’s very existence.” It would have been glorious, undercutting the founding myth of the Imperial house, the great hero Baldric. “Instead, here I am, bolloxing up everything. The Vyr are rampant and I’ve likely started a civil war.”
Mother’s face turned alabaster cold. “Self-pity is the consolation of weaklings. I hear you’ve named the horse your father gave you ‘Penance’. A duke cannot afford to wallow like a weepy maid.”
He should have known better than to expect sympathy. “Do you think King Randolf is likely to war with us?”
She stood and walked to the window. “I leave the politics to the men,” she said, though both knew it was a lie. “But I think he will. He is a weak man, and weak men with authority cannot afford mercy.” She pressed a hand against the window frame
and stared outside a moment. “The more important question is which of the dukes will follow him.”
“Killyngton will support us but won’t go to war with the Crown. I’ve received word he’s sending men to bolster Dexter and the other frontier lords against the Vyr. This will allow us to shift men to face the king.”
Mother nodded approvingly. “Good. And we can count on Duke Hornebolt to remain neutral. He might rule the Cape and Isle now, but many Hornebolts still ride with you.”
“If we choose to ride.” Selwyn paused, taking up a quill and twirling it between his fingers. “There’s another option.”
“You mean your uncle,” she said flatly. “Rupert is not an option.”
“He may have to be. If my title is the price of peace, it might be worth paying.”
Mother turned on him fiercely. “You are not abdicating just so you can run off to some library!”
Quivering with sudden anger, Selwyn pushed back his chair and stood to face her. “This is not about the Order. It’s about our people. Even if I abdicate, I will stay here and fight.” He managed to meet her eyes. “But can we afford Jandari killing Jandari if Leax is coming?”
She did not budge. “This March is the bulwark of Jandaria. Your uncle is a fool. You were young, but surely you remember the many times he begged us for money? Or when we ransomed him from Great Keferi because of gambling debts? Your father received all the best Harlowe traits, while Rupert got the dregs. He would be a disaster for us all.”
“Hopefully this will all be moot,” Selwyn said, willing down his temper. “I’m sending a man into Belgorsk to learn the truth of things. If Leax does not intend war, then we’ll have a freer hand against Lockridge and the king.”
Sitting back down on the bed, Alethea visibly composed herself and nodded approvingly, her mood as quicksilver as ever. “That sounds sensible. Who is your spy?”
Selwyn motioned toward the nearby village, pitching his voice low. “Avrik, a runaway slave from Belgorsk. He fled his master years ago and made it to Jandaria. Wicke gave him land and safety, so Avrik is loyal down to his bones.” Selwyn held up strings and small scrips of parchment that sat on his desk. “We’re giving him a cart and mule. He’ll pose as a squab seller, which should let him travel safely. Leax may be stopping merchants from leaving, but if he’s feeding an army, he won’t mind one entering Belgorsk. Most of the pigeons are for sale, but a few are trained to fly back here.”
“That’s quite clever of you, actually.”
Selwyn waved off the praise. “I read about it once. The Manticore did something similar in his war with Dagora, though he used a falcon monger instead.”
“And this Belgorshan can write?”
“You know Wicke. First, he converted the fellow to the Covenant, and then taught him to read. Avrik’s penmanship looks like it was done with his feet but will suffice.”
“Let’s hope he sends good news,” Alethea said, standing once more and smoothing her dress. “Please excuse me. I need to prepare for dinner.” Pausing at the door, she fixed him with a glare. “Say nothing more about abdicating for Uncle Rupert. It will undermine you with your men, and if I believe for a second you are in earnest, I’ll murder you and find some way to put Helaena on the seat.”
Selwyn knew his mother well but wasn’t certain she was joking.
After breaking their fast with bread and fermented mare’s milk the next morning, Selwyn and Wicke set out for the village, Reyhan positioned ahead to scout for trouble. Dew shone from the grass and weaver birds swarmed around their nests like giant bees. It felt so good to be home with Wicke again.
“Your hearthguard seems out of sorts and in his cups,” Wicke said once they were alone. “Are you certain he’s up to the task?”
Selwyn shook his head. “He loved my brother better than I did and can’t forgive me for not being Ardashir.”
“Hard times are coming. If you can’t trust your hearthguard, best to be rid of him now. Though better if you can restore him, of course.”
“I’ll have a word, but Reyhan’s head is harder than his shield boss. I might have an easier time restoring the Commonwealth.”
Wicke laughed, stepping his horse carefully over fallen timber. “One thing at a time, lad. Let’s defeat the Vyr, the Belgorshans, and our own king first, and then we can bring back the Commonwealth.”
“For now, the Vyr worry me most. Their numbers are growing. Worse, they’re hurting our levies. Nobles won’t send their troops away for fear of attack and peasants are afraid to leave their villages unprotected.”
“Come a war, the crops and herds we’ve lost will bite us as well,” Wicke replied. “An army marches on its stomach.”
Selwyn glanced around to ensure no one lurked in earshot. “It’s good we’re speaking of this. I want to dispatch orders tonight to some of the bannermen, particularly Switt and Hewland. We have threats on three sides—”
“Four, if Lockridge marches directly from his duchy,” Wicke interjected. “And with threats on four sides, I think it’s best for you to centralize our forces. Pull them back to Nineacre and see who crosses the border first. Except those fighting the Vyr, of course. Showing weakness would only embolden them.”
Selwyn turned in his saddle. “If I pull our troops back, it leaves the border castles vulnerable.”
“And what’s the alternative? We’re utterly outnumbered, my dear boy. To defend everything is to defend nothing.”
“Then we should pull our men from the border castles as well. We can’t leave them to die.” I can’t leave you to die.
Wicke eased his horse close enough to give Selwyn a pat on his armored shoulder. “You know we can’t abandon the borders – you’ll need the time our castles can buy. They are, I think, words spoken out of loss. You don’t want to lose another father. And for that I thank you, Your Grace.”
“I cannot lose another, Wicke. If you won’t let me pull you from the border, then I’ll at least send reinforcements. Crossbowmen from the town militias.”
Both halted their mounts on the trail. “You are my liege, but I forbid it. A good lord favors his people above his person. You must do what is right for the March and for Jandaria. If my keep falls, the path to Nineacre Castle is wide open.”
Grinding his teeth in frustration, Selwyn nodded. “I’ll obey you in this, Wicke. But if Leax besieges you, I am riding to your relief.”
“Believe me, I have no wish to die, and desire it even less for my men, but you must make the best choice for your duchy and the kingdom. Anything else is selfishness.”
Selwyn spurred Penance toward the village. “Let’s go see Avrik.”
Three times as they rode toward the village, a stout, white-necked raven croaked at them from nearby branches. Was it Father? The rational part of Selwyn’s mind dismissed the idea as a peasant superstition, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that Father was there, reminding him of the heavy weight of duty.
As they approached the southern gate, Selwyn noted that its frame was reinforced and watchtowers peered over the kraal. Reyhan met them at the gate, giving Selwyn a halfhearted salute.
The streets were nearly empty as they passed through, save for a few old women laughing together as they mended clothes and a band of tiny children pursuing a chicken through the streets. Most everyone else would be out in the fields. A few shops clustered at the village center, signs for a butcher, smith, and baker the most prominent. The backs of Selwyn’s legs smarted at seeing the baker’s shop, remembering the hiding Wicke had once given him for stealing a honey loaf. He smiled and wished that his problems were still so manageable.
Passing through the north gate, they took the road to Avrik’s home. A fence of branches enclosed it, carefully smoothed and polished by the woodworker. The house itself was a sturdy wattle-and-daub affair, constructed in the oblong Belgorshan style. They found Avrik inside the workshop, shaping a wooden bowl. He had a long, gaunt face, as if life had carved out his cheeks and the deep insets of his
eyes. Focused on his work, it took the Belgorshan a long moment to notice them. “Your Grace,” he said, standing quickly from the bench.
“Peace. Be seated,” Selwyn said, motioning for Wicke to take the other bench. “I only came to thank you. It seems like you’ll be saving me a second time – first from my misadventure with the aksu-kal and now this.”
The carver seemed embarrassed by the praise. “Is least I can do.”
“It’s a great deal more than that,” Wicke said. “We know what you went through leaving Belgorsk. It can’t be easy to return.”
The man nodded, his expression turning grim. “Is something I must do. We must not let Leax do to Jandaria what he done to Belgorsk.”
“The coin we gave was sufficient to buy the squabs and a wagon?” Selwyn asked, brushing sawdust from the table.
“Yes, it was. And I got trained pigeons from your clark. My neighbors think I plan to sell birds to savanna villages. I tell them chalkstones in my hand’s getting worse, and I can’t be woodcarver no more. Is only half a lie — Avrik is getting older.” He held up a gnarled hand and Selwyn could see the gouty lumps. “But not too old for this.”
“Thank you for your service to Jandaria,” Selwyn said, taking the man’s forearm and giving it a shake. “Please don’t take any unnecessary risks, Avrik. We need men like you in the March.”
“I will be careful, Your Grace.”
“If anything happens,” Wicke said, “I swear that your family will want for nothing,”
After sharing a cup of cider, Wicke and Selwyn embraced him and took their leave. Outside, the horses were tethered by the street, but Reyhan and his mount were gone. “Where do you think your hearthguard went?”
“The village has no tavern,” Selwyn said. “We’ll find him among the shops.”
Sure enough, he was leaning against the mud brick walls of the bakery, talking up a woman. She was tall, nearly of a height with Reyhan. Selwyn realized it was his mother’s handmaid. He stared icily until the hearthguard took his leave from the woman and rode to join him.
Heir to the Raven (The Pierced Veil, #1) Page 14
