The Horse Lord (The Book of Years Series 1)

by Peter Morwood

  He was past being overawed by fine furnishings, and suppressed anger from his brief, shaming loss of face in front of Esel burned inside him like a charcoal brazier. When he slumped into a chair, he pushed back until the lamellar scales of his tsalaer scraped long gashes in the polished wood. It was petty, and he didn’t care. What concerned him more was who had captured them, if ‘captured’ was the right word and he was beginning to doubt it. For all that their early treatment had been brusque, it seemed that they were just reluctant guests. Very reluctant.

  But he had a key. Three of them. Aldric rummaged up sleeve and down collar and was no longer unarmed.

  Kyrin glanced at the slender stiletto in his right hand and the punch-dagger glinting below the knuckles of his left fist, and hooked two fingers across the tooled-leather patterns of her own high boots. When a small curved blade slipped from its hiding-place his curiosity changed to a smile and she matched it with one of her own, the small, knowing smile of companions realising how much they had in common.

  “Are we leaving now?” she asked.

  “Unless you want to stay. I don’t.”

  Aldric found to his surprise that the door wasn’t locked, and eased it open a whisker. Then he bit on an oath and almost slammed it shut, because a file of soldiers lounged in the corridor outside, armed with short, broad-bladed hall-spears for indoor use. Expecting trouble or not, they were ready if it happened. He leaned back against the door until the latch clicked home and tucked the useless daggers out of sight again.

  “I’ve changed my mind. We’ll stay.”

  *

  There was a small table by one wall, laden with dishes, worked-metal flagons, stoneware bottles and delicate glasses. Aldric studied them, then lifted a few lids. Underneath were a variety of small-foods: bite-sized pies, fried pastries, nut-encrusted little cakes and candied fruit glazed with syrup. Their mingled aromas of sweet, spicy and savoury prickled pleasantly at his nostrils and reminded him of his empty stomach.

  The drinks were equally impressive. One bottle held grapefire, and by the smoky scent of it the grainfire in the other was Hertan. That scent brought back memories of his first tasting at fourteen, a mouthful stolen from his father’s personal store and gulped before anyone caught him. Made with fire and named for fire, it had burned like fire the whole way down, giving him an interesting five minutes when he thought he might cough himself inside-out. Though he liked it better now, grainfire was still no drink for anyone needing a clear head.

  Instead he examined the flagons, partly filled two deep glasses with a garnet-red wine he guessed was Seurandec, and offered one to Kyrin. Her hand trembled as she took it and her lips were compressed until they had no colour left. Kyrin was scared.

  That just meant he wasn’t the only one.

  “If they’d meant us harm we’d have found out by now.” False reassurance kept reality from darkening the brittle brightness of his voice, and he forced a smile onto his own lips as he pressed his free hand against hers to offer the same comfort she had given him only half an hour before. “Drink. If it does no other good, it should help you relax. You’re shaking.” The glass clinked against her teeth as she drained it in a single swallow. “Another?”

  “It is the custom,” said a voice behind them, “for hospitality and refreshment to be offered by a host, not for guests to take unbidden.”

  Aldric felt Kyrin’s hand jerk and heard her stifled gasp of shock, just as she felt and heard his, and when he turned it was with the slowness of exaggerated calm. Despite its carefully-enunciated Alban, this voice was more accustomed to the harder consonants of Drusalan. The language of the Empire. The speaker stood in a sweep of darkness beyond the lamplight, his outline vague, only the glint from jewels and embroidered garments giving indication of size or shape.

  “I beg pardon,” Aldric said, and gestured towards the table and the cups. “Would you…?”

  “Later. Not yet. Please continue.” The man left his cloak of shadows and walked forward so they could see him clearly. He was tall, with a burly, powerful frame like a bear, but a weather-beaten bear of mature years with grey in his heavy whiskers. “The small-foods are excellent. And if you want something hot, say so.”

  That might have been invitation, threat, or just poor phrasing. Either way Aldric flicked an appraising glance at the basket-guard hilt of a low-slung sword and the blunt, capable hand resting on its pommel. Though it was no taiken and its wearer no kailin-eir, he inclined his head in respect to the authority the big man wore like a garment. Haranil Talvalin had worn his clan-lord’s power in the same way, and Aldric possessed a little of it himself. In such circumstances, courtesy went beyond good manners into good sense.

  “I wouldn’t put you to the trouble. But telling me – us – what’s going would be appreciated.” The man stroked his moustache, perhaps to cover a smile, perhaps not.

  “Almost the words I might have used myself.” Then he did smile, if anything so small and fleeting deserved the name. “Explanations will be given and received as necessary. For now, sit down. Be at ease. Feel free…” He gave another minuscule smile. “No, continue to feel free with the wine. I’m assured it too is excellent.”

  Further pointless small-talk was interrupted by four soldiers who stamped in and came to attention alongside the door. The moustached man drew himself more upright, while his two unwilling guests forgot about making themselves comfortable and waited apprehensively for the next development.

  It took the form of a man in a gold-worked purple overrobe, with thinning fair hair in the three braids of a high-clan arluth and a golden crest-collar with a pendant sun. He limped as he entered and the padding of his under-tunic almost concealed a slight crookedness of his back. The eyes in his clean-shaven face were clear hazel, like sunlight through water, and tiny crow’s-feet wrinkled the skin around them as he stared at the two strangers in this tranquil room.

  Aldric didn’t return the stare as he normally would; instead he knelt without hesitation to give First Obeisance. From the corner of one eye he saw Kyrin copy him. Neither had seen this slender man before except on the coins she had joked were no good, but the stylised metal likeness was close enough.

  He was Rynert an-Kerochan, Alba’s paramount clan-lord, Landmaster and King.

  *

  “Up, you two,” said Rynert, taking a seat and an offered glass of wine. “Now, Dewan, what’s all this? Your report was rather… garbled, shall we say? The translation, please.”

  Dewan…? That name rang a long-forgotten bell in Aldric’s memory. Dewan ar Korentin was King Rynert’s Captain of Guards, his personal champion, adviser, confidant and friend. He came from the province of Vreijaur on the edge of the Empire’s influence in Jouvann, and he had been a much-decorated Eldheisart – lord-commander – of the Imperial Bodyguard cavalry in Drakkesborg.

  “Lord King,” the big man said, “you always prefer not knowing how I do my job.”

  “Today is an exception.”

  Ar Korentin’s shoulders rose and fell in the ghost of a shrug and he spoke briefly, his accent and curt delivery clipping the words shorter still.

  “At these gatherings, Lord King, my people watch for the unusual. Friendly meetings between unfriendly clans. Merchants with no goods to sell. A crop-head eijo in a costly eating-house. Nothing too unusual, with so many prizes won, but this one had highborn table manners. Too flawless to be feigned, I was told. An oddity, nothing more, until the incident at the Messenger’s Ride. It involved that same croppy, and was definitely unusual.”

  Kyrin glared at Aldric and muttered something in Valhollan whose meaning he could guess. What troubled him more was the difference between how his father had described this king and the apparent reality. Haranil had praised Rynert as the most open, honest and fair-minded ruler in three reigns, not a tyrant ruling by the favour of his own and allied clans. Yet this open, honest man set spies to watch his own people. It meant that before his father had been deceived by Duergar he had bee
n deceived by his own King. That meant his father wasn’t the all-knowing, all-wise head of a high clan, just an ordinary man who could be fooled.

  And that meant…

  Aldric wondered what else it meant, and if anything truly trustworthy remained in the world.

  Yet the spying made sense. Kailinin were arrogant men, sensitive of slights against their honour, with the low clans worse than the high. Cooped up during the winter then let loose on the Festival’s competition field, any one of them might treat a misheard joke as an insult worthy of immediate reprisal. It happened in miniature during tavern brawls, as Aldric knew only too well. Such reprisal could run out of control into bloody squabbles and an occasional private war.

  There had been no major clan conflict for hundreds of years, not since the Overlords were overthrown and the rule of Kings began, but scholars of history claimed the long peace only proved another clan-war was long overdue. This would be the wrong time, the worst time, to ignite some long-smouldering internal dispute, because the Empire would take notice, take advantage, and take action.

  It had happened before, at The Landing, when the Horse Lords seized Alba from its feuding people and kept it for their own. Duergar was here to make it happen again.

  *

  Rynert set down his wineglass and twisted at a signet ring on his little finger, turning it round and round as he stared at Aldric. His scrutiny made the younger man uneasy, as if he could see the thoughts flicking like fish through those translucent eyes. “Kourgath is just the crest on your collar,” said Rynert at last. “What is your true name?”

  “Lord King, I…” Aldric had been waiting for this question, and hearing it was worse than the anticipation. His mouth went dry and he had to swallow and lick his lips, aware how much it made him look like someone preparing a lie. “Mathern-an arluth, Lord King, I… I was once kailin-eir Aldric Talvalin. Haranil-arluth’s third son.”

  Ar Korentin made a formless, angry sound, and the faint slither of steel as he half-drew his sword almost drowned a gasp from one of the soldiers near the door. “You lying—” the Vreijek began, then fell silent at a gesture from Rynert.

  “Put your sword away, Dewan. The time for it is later, if need be. And you, eijo, why claim to be Talvalin when everyone knows about the pestilence in Dunrath three years ago?” Rynert leaned forward, face grim. “Choose your explanation with care.”

  “If ‘everyone knows’ about it, Lord King, why would I be stupid enough to take the name of somebody ‘everyone knows’ is dead?” He saw Rynert’s eyebrows go up, not just at the sarcasm. The king had expected some intricate excuse instead of a blunt admission of guilt. Or was it guilt? The reasoning was sound. “I use the name because the name is mine.”

  “Have you proof?”

  “Only this,” Aldric touched his crest-collar, “and my tsepan.”

  Rynert studied collar and dirk for several seconds then looked sidelong at Dewan, who shook his head. “Collars can be stolen, Lord King,” he said. “And the dirk’s crest-cap has been removed.”

  “Unfortunate.” Rynert’s voice turned cold and sceptical. “For a moment, eijo, you almost convinced me. Now Dewan’s inquisitors will have to pry the truth from—” He broke off as one of his guards stepped forward and slammed a salute.

  “Gyrek?” Like any good commander ar Korentin knew his men by name. “Why the interruption?”

  “Lord King wanted proof, sir! I have it.” The guardsman pulled off his helmet, revealing a battered face and a spreading broken nose, then snapped back to parade-ground attention.

  “Well?” asked Rynert, curious to know what light a mere sentry could throw on this awkward situation. Aldric doubted it would do much good; the name meant nothing and he would remember such misshapen features if he’d ever set eyes on them before.

  “I’ve seen that one before, Lord King,” the man said. “Him in the black armour. Wore his hair proper then, and no scar on his face. But the same man, swear to it.”

  “You might have to. Where and when did you meet him?”

  “Not meet, Lord King. I…” Gyrek cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “We had a fight. Private one. In Radmur, that was. Couple of years back.”

  “A couple of years?” echoed ar Korentin. “How many?”

  “About three, sir. No, more like four. When I got this—” the guard touched his flat nose and crooked jaw, “—from a mug of ale the hard way. New kailin he was, a bare month past Eskorrethen, hair just up, bumptious and full of… Of himself. A rare good fighter though.” He ventured a crooked smile. “Over a woman it was. Haughty-looking piece, and someone else’s lady too.” Aldric could guess Kyrin was giving him another chilly stare. “Watchmaster took us in, and I got posted to Cerdor. So I’d learn how to act like a soldier, he said.”

  “Dewan, remind me to write to Uwin at Radmur-hold,” said King Rynert. He sounded amused, though his expression hadn’t changed. “My Guard company isn’t somewhere to dump his rubbish.”

  “Captain…?” Gyrek muttered as reproachfully as he dared.

  “Your Guards aren’t rubbish, Lord King.” Dewan’s mouth twitched. “Not always.”

  “You command them, you should know. One last question, Gyrek. What was this kailin’s name?”

  “Talvalin, Lord King. Aldric Talvalin. Haranil-arluth’s youngest lad. Radmur magistrates knew him right off. Bit of a troublemaker, they said. Not often, but once he got going—”

  “Enough. Well done, Guardsman… No, Guard-Serjeant. Dismissed.” As Gyrek joined them the other Guards came to attention, saluted, about-faced and left the room. A great deal of tension went with them. “Confirm the promotion today, Dewan, and award him a duty bonus. Not rubbish indeed. He’s observant, clever, and he stopped a miscarriage of justice.”

  “Thank you, Lord King. Praise for a Guard praises their commander.”

  Rynert tapped one finger against his wine-glass. “Aldric-an, please be seated. I beg pardon of you and your companion for what happened, and what might have happened.” Aldric inclined his head in a gesture more than a nod, less than a bow, and sat down, glad to get the weight of his armour off legs gone a little weak at the knees. “I sent my guards outside so you could speak freely,” the king continued. “Tell me what’s happening in my kingdom. Leave nothing out. Nothing at all. I suspect yours may be the only report with all the details.”

  Aldric moistened his mouth with a little wine and began.

  *

  “It’s incredible,” said Dewan ar Korentin. “The only thing more incredible is you hoping we’d believe it.”

  King Rynert cleared his throat. “I believe it, Dewan,” he said. “If he was lying it would be a convincing lie, not some wild tale he couldn’t back with proof. And don’t forget this afternoon. How thick was the ice on the moat before it began to thaw?” Dewan said nothing.

  “I wondered a little when I saw your hair, Aldric-an,” Rynert continued. “I’ve seen eijin before, but you’re the first venjens-eijo I’ve met in my life. And your oath was against this – Duergar, you called him – this Imperial necromancer? No one else?”

  “Only against him. Why do you ask, mathern-an?”

  Rynert hesitated, and looked at ar Korentin. The Vreijek nodded slowly.

  “Better he hears it from you, Lord King, than a twisted version from somewhere else.”

  Something cold awoke in the pit of Aldric’s stomach and sent icy tendrils shivering up his spine. “Hear what…?”

  “Aldric-an, your brother Baiart told me none of this.”

  Baiart’s name, even his existence, had been locked away at the back of Aldric’s mind ever since it was mentioned in that long-ago discussion with Gemmel. He was probably alive, but that hardly mattered. They had never been close, and the thought that Baiart had run away or changed his name was easy to believe. That he might be a willing player in Duergar’s game was something else. The coldness in Aldric’s belly gave a sluggish heave and sourness fouled his throat.

&nbs
p; “Is he in Cerdor…?”

  “No. In Dunrath. As Clan-Lord Talvalin. I granted him the lands and title myself.” Aldric looked away. The only person who saw his face was Kyrin, and his expression made her wince. “Kailin-eir Aldric,” said Rynert after a moment, “don’t assume the worst. He may be under threat, or even a spellbond if what you’ve said of Duergar is even half the truth.”

  “And if he isn’t? What then? The words, Lord King, are coward and traitor!” Aldric slammed one fist against the wall, heeding neither the crack of a split panel nor the pain and blood of his own torn knuckles. “I took an oath I can’t keep. Because I won’t kill my own brother. I don’t want to. I will not!”

  “No, you will not, because I forbid it. Leave Baiart Talvalin to the Council Court, Aldric. My laws, and the crimes they govern, have long ceased to be the black-and-white of the old Honour-Codes. Dewan, give him some wine. No, make it grainfire. And call a surgeon for his hand.”

  *

  The table was black ebony, the mirror on it was black obsidian framed with red gold, and the sorcerer who stared at it in a black mood was robed in scarlet cloth. Kalarr drummed his fingers on the tabletop then dispelled the images drifting deep within the volcanic glass. “We underestimated him,” he said. “That must not happen again. It irritates me.”

  “It doesn’t fill me with delight either.” Duergar had been sulking since Esel’s defeat and destruction, his temper not improved by Kalarr’s bleak amusement. “Were those your soldiers?”

  “I have none in Erdhaven,” said cu Ruruc, not saying where else they might be. He pushed himself back from the table and stood up. “The bronze traugur was there only because of your own suspicious nature. I wonder…”

  “We have no time to wonder.” Duergar opened a thick book and leafed through it. “Talvalin wasn’t killed on the spot, so I’ll assume he’ll be released.”

  “And what will you do when that happens?”

  “I’ll deal with him once and for all.”

  Kalarr glanced at the page, recognised the charts and symbols on it and shook his head.” You had your chance, and you failed.” He smiled at the childishness of it all. “That spell wouldn’t reach him anyway.”