Kelven's Riddle Book Four

by Daniel Hylton

  Olyeg gazed back at Amund in silence for a long moment and then, finally, he turned to Marcus and smiled. Reaching his hand across, he said, “It's a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Highness.”

  After Marcus' acknowledgment of this action, Olyeg watched him for a moment longer and then asked, “Amund speaks rightly? You do not approve of the High Prince's policies?”

  Marcus shook his head. “One or two in particular trouble me, especially those just mentioned by Dean Amund.” He started to fork a portion of meat but instead set the utensil aside and looked across at the general. “You were long in the south?”

  “For a time, yes,” Olyeg nodded. “As Dean Amund stated, until recently I was attached to the House of Cinnabar, after my promotion to the general staff.”

  “The House of Cinnabar, I understand,” Marcus spoke carefully, searching for the right words, “also might not fully approve of official policy.”

  When he gave his answer, it was clear that General Kraine was practicing caution in his choice of words as well. “If.....things were ever to become, uncertain throughout the land, in any kind of general sense, you understand, it is my belief that Leeton Cinnabar would look to the House of Basura for leadership, and not necessarily to the throne.”

  After making this pronouncement, Olyeg seemed abruptly uneasy and glanced up and down the table, but Amund waved off the general's concern. “I told you, Olyeg, you're among friends. No one here will disagree with your words, either in substance or in meaning.” He turned and frowned at Marcus. “It occurs to me, however....”

  After a moment, Marcus nodded. “Things have changed – I should not have come here.”

  Amund sighed. “Probably not,” he agreed, “but I didn't realize the possible folly of it in time to prevent you.” He looked down at his plate and contemplated its contents. “We need to find a way to defray any damage that might arise from this visit.”

  Chancellor Heglund cleared his throat, instantly gaining the attention of everyone at the table and imposing silence. The elderly head of the House of Basura studied General Kraine for a moment, moved his attention to Marcus for a time and then settled it on his son. “The answer is clear enough. The general will have to report this matter to the throne.”

  Amund gazed back at his father in astonishment, but Heglund continued, turning his gaze upon Marcus.

  “Prince Marcus – does Rahm have doubts as to your loyalties?”

  Marcus gave a short, sharp laugh, devoid of mirth. “From the beginning, sir. There is no love between us.” He thought for a moment. “But I doubt that he thinks that I am actively engaged in conspiracy.”

  “Then we must encourage these doubts. Which is why General Kraine must make his report.” Heglund leaned forward and directed his attention downward onto the polished surface of the table as he tapped out each point with a long thin forefinger. “The general must state that you came here and that he considered it suspicious, because you were expected to deliver a report to the throne. He can then go on to say that you only wanted to ask Amund's knowledge of –” He looked up at Marcus. “Is it true, as comes to my ear, that there was an army of barbarians that came out of the east?”

  Marcus frowned even as he nodded. “There was an army, yes, Chancellor, but I do not think it particularly barbaric.”

  Heglund's pale gray eyes widened with interest. “Indeed? Well, we can talk of that later.” He looked back down at his stiffened forefinger. “The general can say that you sought Amund's knowledge of this army and from whence it might arise.” He looked up again. “This will annoy Rahm, will it not?”

  “Oh, yes, certainly. He will be furious that I stole a day from him in order to satisfy my own curiosity.”

  The Chancellor nodded. “Of course, but he will consider such an action in keeping with what he no doubt considers to be your insubordinate behavior, therefore it will not seem overtly suspicious.” He then looked at Olyeg Kraine. “And the making of such a report will serve to maintain the general's credibility at court.” His gaze took in each of them. “Am I wrong in thinking thus?”

  Amund chuckled, shaking his head. “No, father, you are not wrong. As usual, your wisdom exceeds that of the entirety of the room.”

  Heglund treated his son to a look of cool bemusement. “I'm glad you approve.” He then turned to Olyeg. “Are you also in agreement?”

  The general nodded his head in firm assent. “Yes, Chancellor, and I will do as you suggest. I think it wise on all counts.”

  “Good.” Heglund Basura moved his attention back to Marcus. “Now; what of these barbarians?”

  Marcus shrugged. “I saw nothing barbaric about them, sir,” he responded. “They wore uniforms and marched under common flags.” He frowned, as he thought of the standard that had tugged at his memory. “In fact, I did come here in part to seek Dean Amund's knowledge of one flag in particular – a golden horse's head on a field of red. The leader of the army flew it as his own.” He turned to look at Amund as he spoke, only to see his old teacher's face freeze in lines of astonishment. For a long moment, the older man seemed unable to speak. When finally he found his voice, his tone was one of utter amazement.

  “You are certain of this, Marcus – of the configuration of the standard?” Amund asked.

  “Yes – I saw it.”

  From the head of the table, Chancellor Heglund let out a gasp. “The royal standard of the ancient kings?” The old man bent toward his son with eyebrows raised high over widened eyes. “Who among the less civilized peoples would even know of its existence, let alone its configuration?”

  Amund turned away from Marcus to look toward his father. “Someone who is quite obviously not so 'less civilized', I would suggest to you, sir.” After exchanging a long glance with his father, he returned his attention to Marcus. “I am astounded by this. As my father suggests, this is very ancient knowledge indeed, known only to a few of the more diligent scholars among us. I cannot imagine why it would fly above the head of some rough prince from the eastern wilderness. Tell me, what of the other standards you mentioned?”

  “They were of Lamont and Duridia, and a place named Wallensia.”

  This brought another gasp from Heglund. “It cannot be! Wallensia vanished from knowledge when I was a boy. It was assumed that it had fallen into barbarism or –“ The old man's countenance darkened “– that it was another victim of the malice of the unknown prince of the north. It is well known that his monsters govern a few small slave farms along the banks of the Stell.” He looked hard at Marcus. “Who was it that claimed ties to Wallensia?”

  “A very pleasant young man with whom I spoke at the beginning,” answered Marcus.

  “At the beginning?”

  “Of the negotiations.”

  Heglund frowned. “But he was not the leader?”

  “No,” Marcus explained, “not at all. Everyone on the other side of the field exhibited allegiance toward the man in the black armor that flew the horse-head standard – but, wait!” Every person at the table looked toward Marcus at this exclamation. “I neglected to tell the most important thing,” the prince stated with widened eyes. “There was a horse with the leader – in fact, there were many horses on their side of the field. And the one with the leader communicated – talked – with me – in my mind.” And he tapped his forehead for emphasis.

  This statement brought Amund and Heglund, and nearly everyone else to their feet. As if impelled upward by the collective expression of amazement, Marcus also stood.

  Amund reached out and grasped Marcus by the shoulder. His eyes were round and when he spoke, his voice rasped with the force of sheer astonishment. “Marcus, boy, forgive me, but do you speak the truth?”

  “I swear it,” Marcus replied solemnly. “The horse spoke. I heard his voice plainly. And there were wolves with the man in the armor, too, that answered to his will. And eagles and hawks, so he claimed.”

  Amund's eyes went even rounder. “The noble peoples.” It
was not a question; it was an utterance of amazement.

  Marcus nodded. “That's what their prince named them – the noble peoples.”

  “What did this man – this leader – look like?” Amund asked, and his breath came quick and shallow, infused with excitement. “Describe him as well as you can.”

  The prince thought for a moment. “He was tall, dressed in black armor, as I said, including a helmet with wings or horns on it, and he was very – fierce – I guess, is the only way to describe him. And there was something else...”

  The room was drenched in silence and every eye was fixed on Marcus.

  “Yes?” Amund asked.

  Marcus shook his head. “I can't describe it with certainty, but there was a power there, a sort of emanation that came from him. It made me feel..., I don't know – tingly, as if my nerves were all placed on edge. I think it came from his sword.”

  Amund frowned. “His sword?”

  “Yes. I felt it plainly.”

  “And the banner was his?” Asked Heglund.

  “Yes, Chancellor.”

  “And Lamont and Duridia – they paid obeisance to this man?”

  Marcus nodded. “It was evident to me that they were in subjection to his leadership.”

  Amund and his father exchanged a long look. Then Amund turned back to Marcus. “And there were horses?”

  “Yes.”

  “Living horses?”

  “Yes, Amund, as I said – and the one with the man spoke to us.”

  “Don't be annoyed with me, Marcus,” Amund admonished him, “it's just that this is astounding stuff.”

  Slowly, Chancellor Heglund returned to his seat, followed by the others. Again, father and son exchanged a look.

  Marcus remained silent for a while, watching as Dean Amund picked at his food in a distracted manner, obviously lost in thought. Finally, he could sit quietly no longer.

  “Will you tell me what all this means?” He asked.

  Amund shook his head without looking up. “I don't know what it means, Marcus, my lad, but I can say this – the standard flown by the leader of that eastern army is the standard of the ancient kings. They ruled from a magnificent city called Regamun Mediar, somewhere to the northeast. The knowledge of its location was lost to history thousands of years ago when the great king, Joktan, fell at the end of the great war, slain by the god whose name is now claimed by Rahm's 'friend' to the north. That was also the last time that men and horses were allied. In fact, it was thought that horses were gone from the earth for all time. But now, here they are again, apparently allied with a man that flies the standard of the ancient kings. What are we to make of this?”

  “Who can he be?” Asked Olyeg.

  Amund held his hands wide, and shook his head. “I cannot imagine. Our histories state that Joktan and all his people were slain – and that was the last time the standard of Regamun Mediar was flown, so how –?” He broke off, shrugging.

  “Surely he is not the mysterious prince of the north with whom Rahm treats?” The general persisted.

  “No,” Marcus answered. “He specifically stated that he was the enemy of the one named Manon.”

  Amund treated him to a hard look. “Did he indeed? What else can you tell us about him?”

  Marcus shrugged. “Very little. Our conversation mostly concerned his reasons for being there.”

  “And what were his reasons?”

  “He wanted access through the gap onto the great plains, ostensibly to confront an army of the northern prince, if it came down. He also suggested that he would disrupt the wagon trains that Rahm sends north. I must say, he exhibited a very strong animus toward the practice of ‘gifting’ young women to Rahm’s ally – in fact, he seemed to find that action particularly offensive.” Marcus hesitated and thought of that other disturbing bit of information given them by the “barbarian” leader. But then, as he considered the presence of the several women at the table, he decided to reserve it for another time, when perhaps he and Amund could talk privately.

  “Is that all?” Amund pressed him.

  Slowly, Marcus nodded and looked down the table toward Janifera. “Yes.”

  Glancing once more at his father, Amund pulled his plate close and picked up his fork and knife. “Well, Marcus, you've given us much to consider – a mystery, certainly, and one that must be looked deeply into. In the meantime, let us eat, for tomorrow you must get on to Farenaire and make your report. It will be most interesting to see how Rahm reacts to this knowledge.” He met Marcus eyes once again and then moved his gaze to Janifera. “And while we ponder these things, my lad, we promise to disturb your rest very little for the rest of the evening.”

  He bent to his meal and began eating in earnest.

  10.

  “What's this?”

  Rahm accepted the package from Marcus' hand, scowling at it even as he frowned at his nephew.

  Good Morning, Your Highness.” Marcus bowed respectfully. “It is a report from one of your officers – a General Kraine. I do not know the nature of its contents; I was instructed to place it into your hand unopened.”

  Rahm stiffened, looking hard at him. “You went into Basura?”

  Marcus shrugged. “It was toward evening, I needed a bed for the night, and I wanted to see what Amund thought of that which I'd seen in the Land Beyond the Gates.”

  “You needed a bed? Heglund Basura’s house, and consequently any bed he might have to lend, is somewhat to the east of the main road, is it not? There are many places along the north-south route where an emissary of the throne may rest for the night without going so far out of his way.”

  “True, Your Highness, but as I said –“

  “Silence.” With an expression approaching a sneer, the High Prince waved Marcus’ explanations aside. He used the packet to punctuate his words. “So, those whose banal interests often contradict those of your lord were given primary access to the knowledge of that which occurred beyond the gates?”

  Marcus kept his expression bland and answered carefully. “I'm afraid my curiosity gained the better of me, my lord. I apologize. But I told no one anything of importance. I only asked a few questions of my old teacher.”

  “Ah, yes, Amund Basura.” Rahm's eyes were cold and hard. “A man whose loyalty to the throne of Elam is, shall we say, suspect?”

  “I am not aware of any disloyalty on the part of Dean Amund, Your Highness.” Marcus protested.

  Rahm gazed at him with open contempt. “No more than there is in your own heart, eh? You are either very stupid, nephew, or very clever. I can't decide which it is.”

  “I would hope, my lord, that my talents lie somewhere between those two extremities.”

  The High Prince waved his hand dismissively. “Do not speak. Stand over there. I will see what the good general has to tell me, and then you will make your report.”

  Inclining his head stiffly, Marcus walked over to the designated place along the railing and turned his back on his uncle, gazing out over Elam.

  After some time, Rahm cleared his throat, and Marcus turned to look at him.

  “It seems that the general finds your actions in going into Basura suspicious, but could discover nothing damning in your conversation,” stated the High Prince. He tapped the missive with his finger. “He takes pains to point out, however, that he was not privy to all of your conversation on that evening, and that you spent much of it in the company of a young female member of that family.” His eyes grew colder. “Is there something you would like to tell me?”

  Despite his reluctance to allow Rahm access to his private, personal affairs, Marcus recognized an opportunity to deflect suspicion when it was presented. He did his best to blush. “One cannot choose who his heart desires, my lord,” he answered.

  The High Prince emitted a snort of derision. “One can, nephew, if one has sufficient strength of character.”

  Marcus stood gazing down at the floor for a moment and then replied in quiet tones. “It appe
ars that I do not possess such strength, my lord.”

  Ignoring this, Rahm asked, “So what of the barbarians?”

  As succinctly as possible, Marcus told of his encounter with the “barbarian” host, of their leadership and the presence of horses, telling everything he thought that Edverch would verify when he returned with the army, but leaving out his own private thoughts as to the real significance of those people that had appeared out of the mysterious east. Speaking in a flat, nondescript tone, he understated all that had occurred on that day as much as was possible, except for the one thing he was sure would interest the High Prince most.

  “Their leadership professed no aggressive interest in Elam, my lord; but rather in the prince of the north, whom they seem to view with particular animus. In fact, they seemed intent on forcing a confrontation with him.”

  As Marcus suspected, Rahm's expression, for a fraction of a moment, seemed to light up at this information, but then immediately surrendered to an enforced disinterestedness.

  “Indeed? I have no doubt that he will destroy them.” He looked away for a moment and appeared to be thinking aloud. “But they might diminish him as well.”

  He looked back at Marcus, and his eyes grew dark with insidious hardness. “Anything else?”

  Gazing back, Marcus abruptly perceived in that instant that his uncle's belligerent demeanor was directed at him, not because of anything he'd said or done, nor even for that which he'd reported, but rather it demonstrated a specific and malicious dislike of his brother's son. No, Marcus decided in the instant after that, it was hatred. And it bore in it a look of sinister intent. Tellingly, Rahm made no effort to hide his feelings.