by Ellyn, Court
Rand emitted a dry laugh. “Well done. I didn’t give in gracefully either.” He retreated from the hall, dripping and smelling like a gutter drunkard.
With everyone’s attention focused on Kelyn, no one noticed Leshan steal a quick hand across the table and swipe Rand’s plate. By the time Kelyn resumed his seat, Leshan had divided the food between them.
“Cunning curs, you are,” Morach said, amused. “Lady Ulna, if I recall, got down on her knees and begged for food. She was so good at begging that we let her beg for two whole days.”
“Aye,” said Ulna, “then the king’s wrath was upon you. And let us not speak of how badly you behaved, m’ lord, when food was forbidden you.”
Morach chuckled like a bear growling. “I broke the blighter’s nose, that’s what I did. Lord Tolan of Greymarch, he was, died of gangrene after the Battle of Two Forts. But that was, Goddess, twenty-five years ago. I’ve learned longsuffering since then, and grace. You two have yet to learn your full share, though I daresay, you gave us a fine show. Let’s hope you can devour the Fierans as well as these.” He bit off half a sausage, and hot juice ran into his beard.
Safe for the nonce, Kelyn and Leshan accepted Morach’s permission to eat, but before they could lift fork to mouth, the Master Steward appeared at their end of the table. “Lord Kelyn, Lord Leshan, His Majesty requests your presence immediately. You will follow me, please.”
Long-practiced in the art of the expressionless face, the toneless voice, and more dignified than princes by far, Master Dinél revealed no hint of the reason for the summons. Kelyn and Leshan followed as bidden, leaving the knight’s hall amid another chorus of jeers.
“Gonna send the babes back home, His Majesty is.”
“Remember your manners, boys, and bow properly.”
“No crying allowed, lads.”
After a lengthy trek through the corridors, Dinél brought the knights to a pair of silver-plated doors and admitted them into the Audience Chamber. A long blue carpet divided an immaculate white marble floor; silver lamps with onyx falcon inlays illumined rich tapestries that depicted hounds chasing stags and men spearing boars. Atop seven steps stood the silver throne. Falcons nesting, falcons soaring, falcons catching doves on the wing had been intricately entwined in the bright silver. Kelyn had never seen King Rhorek sit the throne. He claimed it was the least comfortable chair in the kingdom—in more ways than one. He preferred a large upholstered chair behind a broad table below the steps. His War Commander stood formally on his right hand.
The knights bowed, touching fists to hearts.
Keth exclaimed, “You two are a disgrace! Still in mail, for the Mother’s sake!”
Though Kelyn rarely found cause to blush, his face bloomed with heat. “His Majesty’s knights and yours, Da, have been most accommodating.”
Rhorek’s thick beard did little to hide a grin. He must’ve been fully aware how Morach insisted the newly invested spend their first night at Bramoran. Clearing his throat, he said, “No matter. You’ll be pleased to know I’ve decided your appointments.”
Kelyn tried to rein in his excitement; beside him, Leshan was smiling shamelessly.
“I know you as well as I know any of my knights. Your virtues and talents are many. I know you were reared together as squires, and I know who reared you. You are aware that my main corps of knights fall under Lord Keth’s direct command, and it pleases me to place you among these noble warriors. What say you?”
Kelyn’s eyes clamped shut, and to silence his protest he bit his lip hard enough to bruise it. Leshan, however, gushed joyfully, “Thank you, sire!”
“Kelyn?” Rhorek prompted.
“I told you he wouldn’t be happy,” Keth said.
Kelyn glared at his father, certain that this was his plan to keep his son under his thumb. Nothing was turning out as he’d hoped, nothing. He forced himself to bow his head and mutter, “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
But that wasn’t good enough. Rhorek’s hazel eyes narrowed in a contemplative frown, and he said, “Take a walk with me, Kelyn.” The king led him through a glass door that opened on the gardens. The size, but not the beauty, of Bramoran’s gardens put Alovi’s to shame. Teams of gardeners shaped rows of boxwood hedges and climbing roses on trellises into a twisting labyrinth where a pair of lovers—or conspirators—could escape without notice. Kelyn knew the maze well from hours of playing Track the Highwayman with Kieryn and Leshan. Little here had changed since those days.
Rhorek stayed on the main path, which was wide, open, and straight. They walked in silence, the king in deep thought, the knight waiting despondently. Finally Rhorek stopped beside a row of roses the color of blood. Kelyn thought of Rhoslyn, but couldn’t recall why.
“Listen, Kelyn, you can accept things or you can fight them. I know exactly how you feel. The turn of events, the path carved by the Mother, disappoints you. Lying on my desk is a letter that I must send to King Shadryk. The notion of war disgusts and saddens me. But I will send the letter, because my lords advise me it is the right thing to do. Let us hope so. Let us hope this war convinces the Fierans that we want peace—if such a paradox can exist. Let us hope that my decision for you is the right one, too. But know that your father did not ask this of me. I told him this is what I wanted.”
Grace be damned, Kelyn blurted, “But why?”
“Several reasons,” Rhorek replied, and for a moment Kelyn feared the king would not be moved to explain himself. Finally, he added, “You possess qualities few can hope to achieve. As king, it is to my preservation to surround myself with men and women I can trust. Now, some of the Guard have held their positions since my father’s time. They had planned to retire within the year, but war puts a hold on that. As I like to keep fifty in the Guard at all times, I would be forced to find replacements. Therefore, my eye is always on the look-out. And only the elite of my knights—those who prove themselves stalwart, intelligent, loyal—will I admit to the Guard. You follow me?”
Dumbfounded, Kelyn only nodded.
“Yes, so I keep you near that I may keep an eye on you. Leshan, too. But there’s more. As impossible as it may sound, your father won’t live forever. One day, I, or the monarch who follows me, will need a new War Commander. Your father has praised your skill and foresight in planning mock battles time and again. I keep you near so I may observe this for myself as well.”
“Forbid the thought, sire,” Kelyn said, “but what if you should die during this war, and your successor has other ideas for me?” He refused to tolerate the notion that Rhorek’s head might be made a trophy atop Brynduvh’s gate and Aralorr succumb to defeat.
A smile grew inside Rhorek’s beard. “Already you please me. Thoughts of glory and gain are too much for some young men to handle gracefully. To answer your question, remember who my first successor is. Whom do you suppose he’ll choose for his successor?”
Kelyn’s stomach turned, and he looked for a bench where he could sit down. If he had considered that much glory and gain, he’d not consciously acknowledged it.
Rhorek continued, “And should the crown go to Lady Rhoslyn, she will abide by my wishes if I make them known to her. I’ve yet to write her a letter, which I will send along with the silver she requested for her ships. So, I advise you, Kelyn, trust my judgment. Prove yourself courageous—but prudent, too, for therein lies wisdom.”
“Yes, sire,” he said, almost too stunned to draw breath. Whatever his fate, the hand of this king, virtuous and just, would leave its fingerprints upon him. Kelyn grasped the law of the universe in that moment among the rose bushes: Ana-Forah used men like Rhorek, and those of much lesser status, to shape the future of the world, and he, Kelyn, son of Keth, was wrapped up in it all. For how long and to what purpose, it didn’t matter. He was here for the moment, a knight, and he was happy with that.
His empty belly fussed loudly, and he pressed a fist into the void.
Guileless, Rhorek asked, “Something I’ve said not agree with you?
”
Gathering every ounce of grace he possessed, Kelyn replied, “Too much breakfast, sire.”
~~~~
11
Lord Davhin encouraged Rhoslyn’s party to linger at Vonmora for three days, so Rhoslyn could see to her dead. Out of courtesy, Davhin’s household and garrison attended the burning. A fine black silk shroud covered the girl’s body, but the recent snows had dampened the wood; the fire burned low and long, while thick perfumed smoke carried the news of the tragedy from horizon to horizon.
Lura, the handmaid who’d outraced the avalanche, sat weak and inconsolable. Rhoslyn stood over her, tears silent, chin lifted, poise utterly intact.
Her lack of outward grief failed to alleviate Kieryn’s thoughts of guilt. He stood aside from the mourners, unable to look at her, conscious only of the snap of the flames, Lura’s keening, and the ache of his bruises. His ribs and shoulders had taken the brunt of the impact. During his first day at Vonmora, he’d been unable to climb out of bed. Today he had drunk a concentrated solution of mead and silverthorn so he could endure the long, tense hours of standing before the pyre. Too bad the painkiller couldn’t numb his ears or his heart. Rhoslyn hadn’t spoken to him since they descended from the pass. Did she blame him for the girl’s loss as much as he blamed himself? Could the fire sleeping in his hands only kill? Could it not save lives as well? Yes, he had saved Rhorek, but he’d killed a man to accomplish it.
He couldn’t help but feel that his journey had turned sour. If this was to be the beginning of an unlucky pattern, better he had stayed at home. On the other hand, was he so afraid of danger, of risk, that he preferred to avoid life altogether?
“Kieryn?” Rhoslyn said, voice a strained whisper. She approached from across the Burning Yard. “I’m taking Lura back to our rooms. She’s a bit hysterical, poor thing.”
“How are you?”
She ignored the question, which was answer enough. “What am I to tell Maeline’s family? They’re among Windhaven’s merchant elite. They won’t trust me now.”
“Nonsense.”
“You don’t look well yourself. Better get some rest so we can continue on tomorrow.”
“No, I need to keep moving. So I can continue tomorrow.”
Davhin provided enough distraction by giving Kieryn a tour of Vonmora’s silk houses. Though smaller plantations had sprung up across the Northwest, Vonmora silk remained the best and most valuable. Within the half-dozen factory barns, men and women toiled over fine thread, weaving it into plush velvet, stiff crepe, and delicate sheer chiffon. Kieryn feigned an exaggerated excitement until it became genuine. His curiosity about the caterpillars and the pristine, meandering rows of blethora bushes soon obscured his sorrow.
Walking among the shrubs, Davhin admitted, “I’m sorry to leave all this, for battle. I’m good at making silk. I’m a half-hearted soldier. You, too, I guess.”
Kieryn glanced at the fuzzy, purple-veined leaf pinched in his fingers.
“I had an older brother,” Davhin went on. “He fought the Fierans when I wouldn’t leave home. He didn’t come back. Died in the Battle of the Bryna.”
“My grandda died there, too.”
“Yes, I remember. But this isn’t a worry you need to ponder, is it?”
“Can’t help that, m’ lord.”
“No, I suppose not. Well, Rhoslyn is safe at least, thanks to you. I think we leave her in good hands.”
Davhin’s words lifted Kieryn’s spirits remarkably. The next morning, he rose before dawn, looking forward to the last leg of his journey. He climbed to the parapets and watched the sun rise golden over the Silver Mountains. Relishing the quiet promise of the moment, he wished he could hold it in his hands forever, yet he knew, as surely as his hands were too small, that when the moment passed, he would never find it again. The thought saddened him, frightened him, made him stare into the sun until his eyes shut, tearing, and he could see nothing but suns.
The moment had fled. He looked westward over the long shadows weaving through the blethora groves, toward a horizon full of everything he did not know, full of everything to discover. He himself lay beyond that horizon. He wished Etivva were with him, so she could tell him to take courage, to coax him from the sheltered garden and remind him that he had the right to walk unashamed in the light of day. Instead, he felt as if he tumbled head over heel at an unstoppable speed and his brain was racing to catch up.
“Heavy thoughts in the morning.” Rhoslyn’s voice startled him. “Father says that means indigestion by nightfall.” She was leaning against the crenellations, hands shoved into the pockets of her riding leathers.
“How long have you been there?”
“Long enough. Had I been a dragon, I’d have eaten you.”
Kieryn was glad for an excuse to laugh. “How’s Lura?”
She sighed darkly. “Ready to get home. Come, we’re almost ready to leave.”
The mighty Liran guided them west. Lura rode in the wagon beside the driver, looking somber, and Lord Davhin and his garrison accompanied them, a precaution against further danger.
Upon every hilltop, Kieryn strained his eyes in search of the first glint of the Great Fire Sea, but the only water he saw flowed between the widening banks on his right. Barges drifted past, holds filled with crates of silk. Kieryn marveled at the brown-faced crewmen pushing poles into the river’s deep mud. “What a life that would be. So simple.”
Rhoslyn laughed. “Are you mad? Sounds like you and Father will have plenty to talk about. He loves his barges and ships like children love puppies, Mother help him.” Sobering, she added, “Only, don’t mention what happened in the pass. He doesn’t need to fret now that it’s over. And don’t tell Aunt Halayn either. She’ll never let me out of her sight again.” Her arm darted out, pointing. “I told you I’d see it first.”
Topping a thellnyth-crowned hill, they had a clear view of the horizon. Beyond the farthest range of hills, the sky dissipated in a dark blue blur. “That’s it? Are you sure?” He squinted against the westering sunlight.
“Not impressed?”
“Not yet.”
“You will be.” They raced ahead of Davhin’s guard, cantering up one hill and the next, playing a game of hide-and-seek with the sea.
They climbed the last hill just before sundown, and Kieryn could find neither breath nor word. The sunset found echo in the billows, turning the crests tawny, the troughs darkest indigo. The sun laid down a path of fire-lit gold, and Kieryn thought, Surely, Ana-Forah herself walks there. He understood then why the sea had been named Galvalia, or the Great Fire Water: off the western shores, the sun sizzled out within her depths and was birthed again off Heret, the Land of First Dawn, setting the water ablaze in a glorious meeting of the elements.
In the north, the waters stretched out of sight. In the south, they collided with a golden-lit peninsula, and on the edge of the world burned a steady light, nearly consumed by the brilliance of the sun.
“That’s the lighthouse on Westhead Point,” Rhoslyn said. “Beyond that, the Pearl Islands and open sea.”
Beside the Highway, the Liran met the tide in a gliding turmoil of yellow and blue waters. The heavy muddy odor of the river and the crisp salty fragrance of the sea churned just as vibrantly. Stone docks and wooden piers lined the curve of the shore, extending like fingers into the tide. Moored against the oncoming night, the river-faring flatboats became lost in the shadows of the galleons. Brown men on brightly painted Ixakan ships unloaded crates of spices and raw logs of mahogany and fragrant cedar; fur-clad men on black-hulled Dovnyan whalers rolled barrels of oil. Cranes aboard a four-masted Doreli merchanter lowered flats to the decks and raised them again, piled high with crates of silk.
Upon a hill above the cluster of quayside warehouses and trade centers crouched the residences, sleek as golden lions. The smaller wooden shacks of the poorer folk were relegated to the dark streets far from the river. The more silver a house had in its vaults, the closer it sat to the r
iver, and the better the view it had of the palace on the opposite bank.
The Duke’s Palace perched atop a high cliff of yellow sandstone. Its walls and slender towers glowed golden-rose in the lingering light. Reaching highest above the slate roofs, the Beacon Tower flickered with perpetual fire. The light challenged the reddening sun and would burn a vigil throughout the night, guiding vessels into Windhaven Port. Arched bridges joined the Beacon Tower to two flanking towers, each capped with gleaming copper domes that for a few moments longer shimmered with reflected light.
Kieryn struggled for words. “Ilswythe must seem quaint and gloomy coming from this … this. Windhaven puts even Bramoran to shame.”
“My father’s pride. To gaze upon his city is to gaze upon him.” A shadow of sorrow swept over Rhoslyn’s face. She hid it quickly. “But, in truth, Windhaven can’t boast of gardens equaling Bramoran’s or your mother’s. And Ilswythe has … qualities … that I couldn’t help but fall in love with.”
Lord Davhin, his garrison, and the baggage wagon caught up to them. “We’ll leave you here, m’ lady. You can make your way onto the ferry?”
“Certainly, m’ lord. I will remember the generosity you extended during our need. The Goddess go with you and bring you back again.” She clucked her filly into motion. At the base of the hill lay a port reserved for Harac, his family, guests, and household. The ferry-master appeared from a boathouse big enough to accommodate a hundred-man garrison. He was a large man, hands broad and hard, face square and weather-worn. He wore a faded red stocking cap over coarse black curls. Seeing his lady approach, he barked orders at his oarsmen, who scrambled to get the horses and wagon secured to the ferry.
Kieryn clenched onto the railing. The river looked wider and rougher than it had from the Highway. Rhoslyn seemed utterly comfortable, her legs working easily to help her maintain balance as she spoke with the ferry-master.
“Word travels at a fair pace, m’ lady,” he was saying, a drooping black moustache accentuating the frown on his mouth. “The announcement ain’t two days old and already the city’s on a martial footing. Resources being pinched, goods being upped in price.”
