Jerrad closed his eyes and recalled to mind visual pattern he'd associated with one of the simpler spells from the grimoire. It started as shards of stained glass, which he fitted together in his mind, but the magic happened when he forced the pieces to overlap, freeing a riot of colors. He watched them swirl and his flesh puckered. He waited for the tingling sensation to roll all the way up his spine, then opened his eyes.
The words on the book shimmered as if beneath an inch of water, then surfaced clearly and cleanly. Jerrad opened the book, which took him straight to page two hundred and seventeen. The words had no need to shift on the page. He could understand the language easily, and that comprehension extended beyond the written word to the spoken as well.
That's why she wants to keep me away from the Kellids. Tyressa sincerely doubted Jerrad's ability to maintain a straight face if he were to overhear cutting or cunning remarks shared between the barbarians. They'd certainly note his reaction and quickly enough figure out what was happening. Given their attitudes toward magic, that wasn't in Silverlake's best interest.
This book had been written in Varisian, a language which was common enough in Ustalav, but which Jerrad had never needed to learn. When you were noble, people were always happy to speak your language.
Brevic history consisted of a lot of struggles for supremacy between the various powerful families. The author detailed every plot, every blood relationship, every instance of bastardry and murder as could be believed, and hinted strongly at things he couldn't prove. The narrative suffered from later references to material that had long since gone up in flames, but reading it expanded Jerrad's understanding of politics.
Saving his place with a finger, he looked up at his mother. "May I ask you a question?"
"You'll make up the time any answer takes. I won't have you distracted."
"Yes, Mother."
"Well?"
Jerrad sighed. "It's just that in reading this history, it makes me wonder. Did uncle Harric do it? Did he really try to overthrow Prince Aduard?"
"It would not be wise to measure Ustalavic politics by a Brevic yardstick."
"But that's it. The great houses of Brevoy and ours in Ardis—they're all trying to rekindle glory from the past. Is that why he did it? Did he think he could really succeed?"
His mother pulled another stool around and sat, taking the book from him and tossing it on her map table. "Your uncle—my brother—always suffered from one fault. For him, it was enough to come up with the plan. He never wanted to put the work in to make the plan come to fruition. Were he here, we'd have the most beautiful maps of Silverlake ever. Piles of them, one per season. He might even commission a model of what Silverlake the city would look like. You and I—anyone really—would be amazed. And Harric would convince us that we were looking upon a vision from the future. Though he might not have a taste for actual hard work, he was brilliant in his ability to persuade others of his vision."
She took Jerrad's hands in her own. "Someone, or several someones, shared with him a plan for replacing Prince Aduard. They let Harric convince himself that their vision was his own, and then he set about gathering others into a conspiracy. At least one of them informed the prince. Harric was arrested and tried, and refused to name any other conspirators."
Jerrad nodded. "If you had known, would you have told the prince?"
A tiny shudder ran through his mother's hands. "I ask myself why I didn't know. I should have. Had I, I would have done everything I could to talk him out of such foolishness. I never had that chance. And if I couldn't, well, I don't know, Jerrad. I think I would have told the prince, but I just don't know."
Before he could ask who she suspected had worked with Harric, the alarm bell in the heart of the green began clanging loudly. Both of them stood and headed out.
A breathless man met them just outside the tent and pointed back toward the gate. "Edge of the woods, my lady. Armed men, a whole army of them, and they've come under a banner of Ustalav."
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Fifteen
A Visitor From Home
Tyressa ran to the wall, threading her way through crowds of archers. Serrana had an arrow nocked and started after her mother, but Tyressa stopped her with a raised hand. "Wait."
"Mother, I can hit an apple at the edge of the wood from here. You'll be a target."
"Just wait. Get people arranged. Come up on the wall when I give the signal."
Serrana nodding and turned. "You heard her. Form ranks."
Tyressa climbed the ladder and joined the sentinel above the gate. Out at the forest's edge stood a small group of huntsmen in greens and browns, each armed with a short bow. They flanked a young man in a bright red tabard. He bore the standard of Ustalav, a scattering of red stars on a field of purple, above a stag's rack in black and a central tower. Below it hung a second banner.
She looked at the guard. "The lower banner, the white lion rampant—does it have a gold collar?"
The man squinted, then nodded. "'Pears so."
I'd not have thought... She pointed down toward the green. "Go tell them to stop ringing the bell and get ready to open the gates."
"Yes, my lady."
Serrana looked up from the ground. "Is it an army from Ustalav?"
"Not quite an army, but from Ustalav. From Ardis." Tyressa folded her arms around her middle. "It appears Baron Creelisk himself has come to pay us a visit."
∗ ∗ ∗
As the news spread, Silverlake dissolved into a strange sort of social chaos. Many people scattered to their homes to pull on their finest clothes. Serrana did so, donning a lovely yellow gown which now strained at the shoulders. She even slashed the sleeves open, less to accommodate the new muscle she'd put on than to show off the bracer on her forearm.
Others, including Jerrad, wore their everyday clothes. If they chose to add something, it tended to be a pair of boots or a furred vest which the person had created using skins he'd harvested with his own hands. People proudly displayed fruits of their labors, and more than one wore the bows and arrows with which they had become practiced.
The herald, guarded by the huntsman, approached and announced that Baron Creelisk was coming. Within the hour he appeared, riding a black horse. One of his sons—the eldest, Tyressa thought, but could not be certain—rode beside him on a brown horse. Behind them came a dozen heavily laden wagons, followed by thirty soldiers on foot and twice as many tradesmen.
I don't understand. Not at all. She descended the ladder and called her daughter's servant, Aneska, to her. "Find your mother and tell her to organize the families. They're to move from the outlying tents into the longhouse. Everyone is to squeeze in so we have room for our guests."
"Yes, my lady."
"Serrana, you will greet Baron Creelisk, then conduct him to my tent. I shall receive him there."
The girl nodded. "And you'll change?"
"Why would I...?"
"Mother, this is Baron Creelisk. You must." Serrana shook her head. "You must make the right impression."
"Yes, of course." She gave her daughter a smile, then retreated to her tent. She knew what her daughter intended by reminding her to change, but the nature of the "right impression" would be something they differed over. Serrana, and those who dressed as she did, wished to show that they remembered Ustalav fondly. They wanted to display their loyalty. The others wanted to have their independence noticed. They could live without Ustalav, and would be happy to do so.
But what is it I wish to convey? Tyressa shuddered. In even asking that question she found herself falling back into an Ustalavic mindset—the sort of thing that made survival at court even possible. Back across the river, nuance was everything. The color of flowers in a vase, or the number of petals on each, could convey a different message. A courtier summoned to the prince's presence could read in his attire and the room's decorations everything the prince would never deign to say.
> As quickly as she could she located the hunting trousers she'd been given and replaced her skirt. From her belt she hung the hatchet and the butcher knife she'd used on the night of the attack. Had it not been awkward and unnatural, she'd have even carried the fishing spear. Instead she returned the Brevic history to the shelf and sorted a sheaf of notes into distinct piles on the map.
Cheering heralded the party's arrival. Tyressa half-expected thunderous hoofbeats leading to the tent and Creelisk stalking in, incensed that she'd not greeted him at the gate.
Calm yourself.
The baron did not appear. The noise from outside shifted toward the south. It took Tyressa a moment, then her eyes tightened. Well played.
She didn't need to venture out to understand what was going on. In fact, Baron Creelisk's action meant that she couldn't leave. Before coming to see her, he diverted the company to Lord Sunnock's grave. He'd unfurl some banner over it, or sprinkle earth from Ustalav. He'd do it in silence, pretending to have a private moment while in clear view of everyone. No one who watched him, who saw the signs of grief on his face, could bear him any ill will.
While he played at his charade, she sat and quickly wrote out plans for a larger memorial, to be placed on a small hill to the south. They'd create it in the spring, and expand Silverlake in that direction as well. The fallen would be disinterred and reburied beneath a monument grandly celebrating their sacrifice.
She'd just laid her quill down when Creelisk appeared at the tent's opening. She'd seen him two years earlier—at her brother's execution—and he hadn't changed at all. Of average height and yet cadaverously slender, he had curiously droopy jowls which he sought ineffectively to hide beneath a beard. His coal-black hair matched the hue of his eyes, but she was certain he dyed it. The lines around his eyes and on his forehead betrayed his true age, though his cold gaze had an ancient sense about it. He wore black clothes trimmed with purple. The white lion had been embroidered over his heart, complete with the gold collar that only the head of his family could wear.
"Please, my lord, enter."
"So kind, as always, Lady Tyressa."
"Out here, I have no rank."
The man smiled carefully, tugging off his black gloves. "In Thornkeep, and even to the west, they call you Ogrebane. Even discounted, the stories are enough to earn you any title you want."
Tyressa nodded simply. "And you, my lord, know the truth of things. I put it all into the letter I sent."
"I appreciated that very much." He hooked the toe of his boot through the legs of a camp stool. "May I?"
"Please."
He sat and did not appear to mind having to look up at her. "To be frank, I didn't think Sunnock had it in him to be a hero. In fact, I sent him here because he had a streak of cowardice which, I assumed, would keep him safe. Here, he would also have less of a chance for embezzlement—the cowardly form of theft. Giving his life for others simply wasn't in his portfolio."
"People are full of surprises. One never knows what they'll do under stress."
"Succinctly put."
"May I ask why you've come?"
Creelisk chuckled. "To pay my respects to an old friend."
"Will you be taking his body back to Ardis?"
"I think not. Lugging a corpse to Ustalav is going to be an untidy affair. But there's no hurry. That's not a decision that needs to be made right now."
Tyressa folded her arms over her chest. "You make it sound as if you plan an extended stay."
"I have, though exactly how long is in question."
"You've brought enough people to double our population. We're not eating overmuch at the moment, and saving as much as we can for the winter. If we feed all of you, we'll die out here. But then, that's to your benefit, isn't it?"
Creelisk nodded. "I anticipated you reaching that conclusion. It's what I would be thinking. That's why the wagons are laden with all the supplies you last requested through Sunnock. In fact, I doubled them. I suspect Sunnock had confederates who were siphoning off some of the things which were sent in this direction. Also, based on your report of the attack and the aftermath, I guessed at the nature and number of artisans you would require to repair things. While I see you've made great headway, these people will be yours to keep."
Tyressa sat. "Your doing this makes it more likely Silverlake will thrive."
"I don't care if it thrives; it's merely important that it survives." Creelisk hunched forward, resting elbows on knees. "You know well I've long coveted Vishov lands. Now I find myself steward of them, and I'm content to wait twenty years for them to become mine. The problem is that it's very apparent that's not going to happen. Things have changed in Ustalav."
"How so?"
The man's dark eyes narrowed. "It's the romance of the thing here, of Silverlake. You recall how someone paid Ailson Kindler to write that tripe which disgraced your family and embarrassed the prince?"
"That's why we're here."
"Yes, well, someone else paid that scribbler to write another of her so-called novels, with a heavily disguised Silverlake as one of the settings. The book, Winds of Mercy, is already wildly popular. In it, the character who represents you—who represented you in the last book—does battle with a goblin king and slays him. So when news of your battle here reached home, it struck many as if you'd proved your innocence. Slaying that ogrekin was your trial by combat. Because you're now seen as an innocent victim, people look to see who's benefited from your hardship."
"And they point at you."
"They do."
"Forgive me, my lord, but the opinions of others have rarely mattered to you in the past."
He sat up. The corner of his mouth twitched in an approximation of a smile. "The reaction within Vishov lands had been especially vehement, shall we say. People talk of refusing to pay taxes and instead sending grain and gold here, to Silverlake. As I couldn't stop such a movement without slaughtering masses, I placed myself at the head of it."
Tyressa smiled and looked beyond him. "And the artisans, they were among the most vocal in their support of Silverlake?"
"I found it convenient to offer then a chance to join you." He opened his hands. "That, however, was not the reason I had to come."
"No?"
He shook his head. "Your letter, filled though it was with dire news, had a spark buried within it. I read no despair in your words. Stress, yes, and the presentation of a thousand challenges, with the line of them never to end. You reported facts without panic, and asked for aid within reason. And yet, I sensed a need."
"A need for...?"
"In you, nothing. It was something I felt in my heart." He opened his hands. "To put it plainly, I found myself envying you."
"Envying? You've not read well the reports of mud and goblin guts."
"The fact of it is this: I inherited my title and holdings in Ardis after my brother died. My adult life, the last thirty years, has been spent administrating. I hear reports, I make reports, I give orders, all with mind-numbing regularity. Everything runs well, save when highwaymen set up shop or barbarians come raiding. Yet even those things occur within predictable patterns. I will pass my lands and title on to Ranall, and once I'm dead, there will be nothing in the world by which I'll be remembered."
He stood and pointed back toward Sunnock's grave. "Can you imagine anyone mourning my passing? No, please, don't offer a polite protest. My wife won't—don't pretend you don't know of my seeking carnal pleasure outside the marriage bed. My children may. No one else. No one will think of me as they do Sunnock, believing they owe their lives to me.
"I've come to ask you to let me be part of Silverlake. Let me help you however I can. I'll freely give you all the Vishov resources you want. I'll match them with my own. While I will have to return to Ustalav for the winter, if Ranall chooses to remain, I'll see to it that you want for nothing."
Tyressa sat stock-still. Had she had the leisure to imagine a conversation with Baron Creelisk, never in a thousand eons woul
d she have imagined his saying what he just had. Conniving, vicious, the leading candidate for being one of Harric's conspiratorial friends; all of these she would have applied to him and known they were true. His offer came as such a reversal that it defied belief. Knowing him, she was certain the rose he offered had a thorn, but she couldn't see it.
"Your offer is most generous, my lord. I scarcely..."
"You cannot believe it. I know. You don't trust me. No, I've earned that, I've earned it many times over." He clasped his hands at the small of his back. "What I would propose is this: In these wagons I have all the provisions I mentioned, plus more. Enough for a grand feast. It should take a day or two to prepare. I assume there are local dignitaries you'd wish to invite to join us, and everyone needs time to settle in. The second longhouse should be finished—that could be the cause for celebration, in fact.
"Take your time to think. Judge me by my actions here. Take a week or a month. Even to the first snow. Unless you tell me to leave, I shall be here until then. If you see that my intentions are true, you'll have no better partner in raising Silverlake."
Tyressa stood slowly and offered the man her hand. "I can promise only to judge you fairly."
"I can ask no more of you, Tyressa of Silverlake." He smiled a bit more broadly, and maintained it for a heartbeat or two. It almost seemed as if he was having to learn to smile for the first time. "I admire what you've done, and before I die, I would help you make it so much more."
He shook her hand, then turned and walked from the tent.
Tyressa, alone with her thoughts, wanted to sit down, but refused. She forced herself to clear the papers from the map and study it. She made herself look at it as it was, not as Creelisk's help would make it.
That gave her perspective.
But I wonder if it's enough perspective?
Pathfinder Tales: The Crusader Road Page 13
