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

by J. Wesley Bush

  “How did you find the real Edine’s father?” Larissa asked.

  “That’s a long story,” Timble said. “But the man you saw weren’t him. He’s just a jongleur I found in a street corner drama yesterday. Speaking of which, you owe him two gold sovereigns, Tancred.” The door knocker clacked loudly, and Timble grinned wickedly at the magus. “That will either be him, or Captain Timotei, whom I promised a ridiculous amount of your gold if he testified.”

  CHAPTER 38

  B efore Lord Rotamir took him from the village, Mirko Bowback had thought a soldier’s life was fighting, but now he knew it was mainly just walking and digging. The cursed, short-handled shovel was in his hands again, as he and a thousand others worked to divert the Green Lady. Rumor said Priest-King Leax planned to dam up the river so his army could walk straight to the walls of Nineacre. The fortress was only a quarter-mile downriver, its pale stone towers floating atop the morning fog.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this,” Little Havryl complained, watching the river fearfully. “The Green Lady won’t allow it. She’ll drown us all.”

  The Magpie fixed pale blue eyes on the lad. “Close that arse of a mouth, fisherboy! We’ll all get beatings if the guards understand you. Only a child believes in that green bint — witches sacrificed her a thousand years ago.”

  “That’s not true! Lots of my people have seen her.”

  “Then your people are liars.”

  A serjeant squatted down by the trench. “Work.” Most in Mirko’s tithe spoke no Oberyn, but they had long since learned this word.

  Mirko dug at a tenacious rock, levering it free with the shovel. No matter how badly he hated digging, at least they were far from the slaughter at the border castle. Thankfully, his tithe had seen no fighting, spending the battle vainly trying to catch the Jandari. It had been a strange army, mostly just women and boys. Vasik One-Hand had been the first in the tithe to realize it was a trick.

  After the fall of the Jandari castle, Belgorshan lords and mercenary captains had plundered it for half a day. Mirko’s tithe had been close enough to watch them argue over curtains and candelabra. Fights broke out. Sometimes they tossed dice. Leax had sprawled on his Amber Throne, watching with a broad smile. “They’re as bad as vultures,” Yosip had said with disgust.

  Vasik had nodded agreement. “Leax loves his games. Their contracts and fealty charters should spell out terms for plunder, but he enjoys watching them tussle for the scraps.”

  Afterward, the march to Harlowe Ford was pure torture. His back had cramped, making every step painful. Jandari riders harried them the length of the journey, coming day and night to loose arrows and ride away. Nevertheless, he had been glad to leave the border castle, away from the reek of corpses, away from vultures jostling with horrifying, rubber-necked storks for a taste of rotting flesh.

  The rest of the afternoon fell into a quiet rhythm, carried along with work songs from home. They were taking a water break when a serjeant led Lord Rotamir to their tithe. Rotamir asked something in Oberyn and the serjeant pointed at Mirko. Quivering, Mirko took an involuntary step back.

  “He asked which of us is most useless,” Vasik whispered.

  The serjeant crooked a finger at Mirko. “To me,” he said in accented Belgorshan. “Come.”

  Mirko hesitated. Rations were low and they were going to kill him. The useless one. That must be it.

  “Come!”

  Fighting down terror, Mirko took a step forward. If he refused, the whole tithe would suffer.

  “That’s a lad,” Uncle Luka said quietly. “Our prayers go with you.” Stepan gave Mirko a lift as he struggled out of the trench.

  He followed Rotamir and the serjeant to a rowboat at the river’s edge. Steadying the boat with one hand, the serjeant motioned Mirko inside. In a moment, they were afloat and the serjeant pulled at the oars, fighting the current and guiding them to the other side. Once across, they left the boat and followed the cobbled street running from the quay to the center of town. Harlowe Ford had burned to ruins, but here and there a house or shop survived. Perhaps the owners had been too much in haste or lacked the heart to destroy their own homes. Mirko could understand. At that moment, his little wattle and daub hut seemed like the sweetest place in the world. Every heron loves his own swamp.

  They passed Belgorshan nobles who bunked in the spared houses of the town, as well as the washerwomen, cooks, and other camp followers seeing to their needs. Mirko peered through the morning fog, expecting to see a chopping block or gibbet in the town square. It was how things were done in Belgorsk. Instead, Lord Rotamir took him by the arm and guided him into a shop. Its white walls were scorched and half the roof was gone, but the living quarters in the back were still intact.

  A bed sat in the center of the room, its hemp mattress suspended by ropes over a wooden frame. Sitting on the edge was a bearded man of middle years. With a start, Mirko recognized him as the Jandari lord who had mocked Priest-King Leax. Were they to be executed together?

  At a command from Lord Rotamir, the bearded man raised his foot. A chain dangled from the iron clamp around his ankle. To Mirko’s astonishment, the soldiers pushed him on to the bed and secured the other clamp to his left ankle. With a final clout from the serjeant, they shut the door and bolted it from outside, leaving him chained to the Jandari lord.

  Stretching the chain as far as it could go, the Jandari struck steel to flint and lit the rushlight, brightening the room and filling it with the smell of burning fat. Mirko noticed that everything about him was brown: hair, eyes, skin, even the battered gambeson he wore. The Jandari lord smiled and said something in Oberyn. Getting no response, he changed to Belgorshan. “My given name is Sehzad, but everyone calls me Wicke. What’s your name, my friend?”

  Mirko felt as if his voice were hiding down around his navel. “Mirko… milord. Mirko Bowback.”

  That brought a laugh. “I won’t call you bowbacked if you stop calling me lord. In these circumstances, we’re both just men.” His Belgorshan was good, only the rising and falling Oberyn tones giving him away.

  “You speak Belgorshan? How is this possible, milord?”

  “Wicke. Many Belgorshans have fled to my lands. If I lead a people, it’s important to understand them. Besides, I find the grammar fascinating. The case system and syntax are completely foreign to Oberyn, and it provides an interesting perspective.”

  Mirko blinked, certain that the words were Belgorshan, but clueless as to their meaning.

  “Do you have a wife at home? Children?”

  It had been his dream that war would bring him lands and a wife, but Mirko was certain now that Leax would give nothing to the peasants and slaves. “No. I have an uncle. And you?”

  “Had a wife, but we were never blessed with children. My squire is like a son to me, though he’s moved on,” the lord said wistfully. “Books have kept me company.”

  With sudden daring, Mirko turned to him. “The things you shouted to us from the castle wall. You meant them?”

  “Of course. The Jandari are a free people. No one is bound to the land, and they can buy and sell their farms at will. The power of the nobles is tightly restricted. Even the king has limits, and when he dies, representatives from all classes of Jandaria come together to choose his successor.”

  The words were understandable, but Mirko had trouble believing them. “Jandaria sounds like the walled garden of Bogumil.”

  The lord chuckled. “It’s no paradise, I assure you. We have our full measure of scoundrels, hypocrites, and petty tyrants. Until the God of the Hidden Throne unites the heaven and the land, this world will see trouble. Don’t you agree?”

  “The priests say paradise will come when the Empire unites the world,” Mirko said, speaking without thought. He flinched as the Jandari lord raised his hand, but it was only to advance the rushlight in its holder.

  “That idea was created less than two centuries ago, when Orrick, the first emperor, conquered the Belgorshan people. He cl
aimed God was telling him to unite the world under his rule.”

  “But the priests…”

  “To the Abyss with Imperial priests!” the lord growled. “Your people were freer than the Jandari, choosing your own chiefs, owning your own lands, worshiping as you would, until the emperor crushed you under his heel!”

  Mirko was speechless. This was the opposite of everything the priests taught. Many songs of the boyani spoke of a golden time before the Oberyn lords had come, but they were fire stories, like the armless princess or the magic feather. No one believed in them. The nobles and their swords were real. Priest-King Leax was real.

  A commotion outside drew their attention. They could hear a few shouted commands, and then the bolt turned in the door. Mirko fell to the floor in terror as Priest-King Leax stepped into the room. Wicke casually stood to his feet.

  The priest-king seemed to fill the space. It wasn’t just his height, or the massive stomach which tumbled over his belt, but the weight of his presence. He motioned for Wicke to sit and then took a seat on the bench along the wall. Mirko knelt on the filthy rushes of the floor, barely daring to raise his head.

  With a deep bow, a servant entered the room, serving wine to both Wicke and the priest-king. He left for a moment and returned with a plush cloak that he draped over Wicke’s shoulders. For perhaps a half hour, the priest-king chatted amiably with Wicke in the Oberyn tongue, his barking laughter causing Mirko to tremble. In the end, the priest-king stood, pointing to Mirko and then making a strangling motion. Whatever he told Wicke sounded almost apologetic.

  After waiting to see if the priest-king was truly gone, Mirko climbed back on the bed. Worry overcame caution. “What did he say, milord?”

  “Leax admired my chestnuts for yelling defiance back at the castle and refusing surrender. He also knows that Duke Harlowe was my squire and isn’t sure whether it’s better to keep me for a hostage or have me killed.” After a moment he added, “If it comes to it, he’ll have you strangle me.”

  Mirko nodded sadly. “I have heard of this. It’s a disgrace to die at a peasant’s hand, so we are the executioners, but we cannot shed the blood of a noble.”

  A dark chuckle. “He doesn’t want to give you ideas. Once you start spilling noble blood, who knows where it would lead?”

  “Are you afraid to die?”

  Wicke’s eyes shone in the dimness. “Not afraid to die, no. My faith is sound. Perhaps a little afraid of the dying.” He cleared his throat huskily. “Mostly I just regret the things I would miss. Princess Clarice, the emperor’s sister, is promising a new gloss on the writings of Adhelhird and I look forward to challenging it. And my squire will be a great duke one day, but now he is young and I would do anything to be at his side.” With a cough, he waved it all away. “We will pray, and hope, and see what comes.”

  “We will.” Mirko felt his own eyes grow wet. He had thought they were proof against tears by now.

  Soon after, Wicke’s smile returned and they talked of the forests of home. The Jandari lord had a boundless interest in the land of Belgorsk, which he said held underfaie long since dead in other lands. Mirko was curious to learn more of Jandaria and its liberties. Wicke explained that they grew from the ancient rights of the Jandari horse people, but even more from the Codex of the Commonwealth. When he described the fall of the Commonwealth two centuries before, it was as if he spoke of the death of a loved one.

  Hours later, a servant brought them dinner, a crust of bread for Mirko and a full trencher of stew for the lord. When Wicke set the trencher between them and invited him to share it, Mirko realized the lord’s words might actually be true.

  CHAPTER 39

  H elaena prepared for war, surveying the field and trying to anticipate the enemy lines of attack.

  Princess Clarice was sure to bring up the conflict between Selwyn and King Randolf. She would likely mock the Jandari as rustics; even friendly lands thought Helaena’s people were only half-civilized, and the Empire was hardly friendly. The princess would also remind the Swan nobles of the emperor’s generosity, and perhaps subtly imply the danger of opposing him.

  “It’s no good,” Helaena said, meeting Saafi’s eyes in the mirror. “Mother tried to school me in courtly battle, but I never listened. This bloody Princess has probably studied little else.”

  Saafi stood just behind, helping her prepare for the dance. She cinched the lacings of Helaena’s dress and tied them in a bow. “Don’t let her frighten you. Think how quick-tongued you are with Reyhan or the magus. If you can manage them, how hard can this Imperial trollop be?” She paused, and added airily, “Be happy to help, of course, if I’d been invited. You should never leave your battlemate behind.”

  “I wish I could bring you, but Grandfather wants to keep the party intimate, just key supporters and the barons we need to influence.” The day had been nothing but closed meetings with White and Black nobles, mostly distant cousins from her mother’s side. She had only met a handful of them before and each was named Baron Swan. It was helpful so many of the powerful barons were in Swanthorpe, but no coincidence. Most avoided leaving the capital for fear the others would conspire against them. In truth, stewards ran most of the baronies, while the Swans spent their time in the capital keeping a wary eye on each other.

  “Will you need this?” Saafi asked, pulling a red stallion brooch from a saddlebag. “Your dress is so plain – it wants something.”

  “Best not remind them I’m a Harlowe. We want them to see the king’s granddaughter.” Helaena frowned in the mirror. The dress was simple, done in soft, charcoal wool and gathered just under the breast with a blue sash embroidered in silver. Nothing finer was ever needed at Lord Dexter’s frontier castle.

  “How would her ladyship like the hair done up?” Saafi asked with mock servility. “Wimpled? Perhaps a bag of golden cloth? A pointed hat?” They had none of these.

  “Just a wrap, faithful servant. Many thanks.” Helaena grinned nervously, ducking her head while Saafi veiled her braids in gray linen. It would have to do.

  Lyle was waiting in the corridor to escort her to the dance. His clothes were just as plain, she noted, a padded doublet, mi-partied in the green and brown of House Yates. She was profoundly happy to see him. “My prince.”

  He stared a moment before taking her by the arm. “That color is very becoming on you.”

  “Your mother trained you well,” Helaena said, giving his arm a squeeze.

  “No, truly.” They descended spiral stairs to the courtyard and then crossed to the central keep. Music and laughter spilled out into the cool night air. She had forgotten how richly the Swans entertained themselves.

  The Great Hall was transformed for the evening. Trestle tables bordered the room, some covered with meats and savories, others with delicate sweets. One held nothing but fruits in every variety. The dancing had not yet begun, but a troupe of seven musicians filled the room with lively song. It was extravagant, even by Swan standards, especially as Grandfather had said only forty guests were invited. Helaena wondered if it was really in her honor, or that of Princess Clarice. Probably best not to know.

  Lyle accepted two cups of wine from a passing servant and gave one to Helaena. “We should talk. Most of the younger lords weren’t invited tonight, so they’re gathering in the small hall for games. It might be best to divide our efforts.”

  Helaena nodded reluctantly. Even more than in the field, here she wanted a battlemate. “You’re rotten at quoits and hazards. Maybe I should game and you dance?”

  “I don’t think they’d welcome a lady at the gambling. Women, certainly, but no ladies.”

  “Then you’d best behave yourself.”

  “Needn’t worry about me. Good hunting!” Lyle’s wide mouth split into a grin, and then he left Helaena to the mercy of her family.

  The following half hour passed surprisingly well. The older barons were charmed by her tales of fighting the Vyr, and the younger seemed just to find her charming. She alway
s brought the story back to Jandaria’s plight – assailed by barbarians to the west and a mercenary army from the north. Despite this success, tension knotted her shoulders. Where is that Imperial harpy?

  Loud murmurs drew their attention to the vestibule. The music stopped.

  Two warriors strode into the hall and did a full pass around the room before returning to the door to stand at the ready. Their thick beards were gathered by bands of silver and gems. They wore lamellar breastplates of imperial viridian over a surcoat of black mail and each warrior held a long sword-staff at the ready. Helaena recognized them as the Zealots of Irmgaard, guardians of the imperial family.

  A black-robed matron entered next, as watchful as the guardsmen. The silver rope chain with a holy icon marked her as an imperial hagia, probably brought along as a chaperone. Last to arrive was Princess Clarice, flanked by two more of the Zealots. She was surprisingly young, Helaena noticed, perhaps two years older than Selwyn. Her dark hair was a confection of plaits and curls, gathered up in silver mesh so delicate it had to be transmuted. She wore a sleek viridian dress and a silver amphiserpent torc encircled her neck, the eyes set with emeralds.

  Men stood taller and women absently smoothed their dresses or fussed with their hair. Princess Clarice smiled gently and turned her attention to an elderly baroness by the door, speaking in tones too low to be heard over the music. Soon she was working her way through the room, talking intimately with each in turn. Everyone resumed their conversations, though Helaena thought most were keeping an eye on the princess.

  “My dear Barons Swan!” Helaena said brightly, joining a trio of stern-faced nobles. She took note of the rubies and garnets worn in their ears or set into fat rings. Reds. “It’s been years since I’ve seen some of you.” Clasping hands with each in turn, she managed to resurrect their names, Gustin and a father and son named Hugh. “My mother sends her greetings and regrets that the Belgorshan invasion prevented her travel.”