Artesans of Albia

by Cas Peace

  Within minutes, the pyre was consumed. It fell in on itself, showering sparks. Reaching out again, Sullyan caused the flames to rage even hotter, melting and vaporizing the steel of Vanyr’s sword. Melding with his bones, it would travel with him on his final journey.

  Glancing again at Pharikian, Sullyan reached out her right hand. He smiled and took it. Linked, they pooled their strength, and the watchers saw a tiny, perfectly-formed funnel of Air appear directly over the pile of ash. It swirled sunwise until, gently, it touched the ash, whirling it up into a spiral. Black eyes ringed with gold and slit-pupilled yellow eyes watched and controlled the spiral together as it broke away from the earth, ascending high into the sky above their heads. Then, with a wisp of thought, it was borne away by a swift wind, disappearing to scatter over the forests to the east.

  + + + + +

  Later that same afternoon, Pharikian came to Brynne Sullyan where she sat with her friends in the chambers she shared with Robin. The Captain had reported back to Blaine, telling him that the Staff was not lost and promising to keep him informed of any developments. Blaine reported that Cal had arrived safely back at the Manor and was in the capable hands of Chief Healer Hanan, who had confidently predicted he would make a full recovery. Dexter had told the General of the trouble caused by Captain Parren, but Blaine wished to speak with Robin privately before he would consider taking any action. He saw no need to address the problem while Robin was absent from the Manor. Robin was content with that.

  Determined to ensure that Taran and Bull would be fully fit to return to the Manor, Sullyan had just finished an intense healing session when Norkis, Pharikian’s page, tapped at the door. Bull’s heart was stronger and his burns were fading. Taran’s knife wound was healing well and there was no trace of infection to prevent him from traveling. Her own hurts were also improving. The bones of her left wrist had knitted well and she had more control over her fingers. The back of the hand was shiny and pink with new flesh, and she had at last been able to replace Robin’s ring on her middle finger. She could not yet tell whether she would regain full use of the hand and suffered pangs of regret when she thought she might never again play her harp, but she wasn’t going to give up until she knew she had done all she could. She fully intended to start gentle sword practice the next day.

  As Norkis bowed Pharikian into the room, they all stood. Waving them down, he said, “We are all friends here, and I have had quite enough formality for one day.”

  He accepted the fellan Bull passed him, and sat on the couch next to Rienne. He had developed a liking for her in the few days he had known her, and Deshan had told him how highly he rated her healing skills. Smiling at her, he asked, “How is your young man doing, my dear? Well, I hope. I would like the chance to meet him one day.”

  Rienne assured him of Cal’s recovery, and he nodded in relief. Then his expression clouded and he glanced at Sullyan where she sat in the circle of Robin’s arms by the fire.

  “Brynne, my child, we have much to discuss concerning Rykan’s Staff. Both Deshan and I have thoughts on the matter. However, I have come to ask if you would consider waiting one more day. I have just received word that my son is returning from the north tomorrow, and considering what Rykan would have done had he won his challenge, this is a doubly welcome event. My people will expect a celebration, especially after the sadness of Vanyr’s passing. I know that my son is keen to meet you, and a day of relaxation, music, good company, and cheer is just what we all need after the events of the past few weeks.

  “What do you say, Brynne? I shall understand if you would prefer not to delay. Both Deshan and I can spare some time today to begin our discussions, but I had hoped you would not mind too much waiting until after Aeyron’s return.”

  Sullyan smiled, guilty relief stealing through her. “Timar, I would be honored indeed to meet Prince Aeyron. How could I deny your people their celebration? They are right to rejoice at the safe return of your Heir, and I would not miss his first meeting with Ty Marik, nor his reaction when the Princess asks his permission to marry! A day of celebration would be welcome indeed, for each and every one of us has much to be thankful for. Except, perhaps, the Lady Falina.”

  The Hierarch’s face clouded at the mention of General Kryp’s widow. “Yes,” he agreed sadly, “she has been inconsolable. But Aeyron was always a favorite of hers, so perhaps his arrival will cheer her.

  “Very well, Brynne. You are all invited—no, required—to attend tomorrow’s festivities, and we will save our conversation for the day after, when you will have our full attention. I believe Deshan has something particular to say concerning your … circumstances.”

  She gave him an enquiring look, but he shook his head. “It’s no use asking me, child, he hasn’t told me what it is. We will have to wait, but I am sure he will tell you when he is ready.”

  + + + + +

  The feast day was a balm and a tonic to all. The fears and frustrations, fighting and killing, were all forgotten as the entire Citadel gave itself up to celebrating the Heir’s return. When Rykan’s hostile intentions had become clear, Pharikian had immediately sent the young man into Morvaigne, the mountainous region ruled by Tikhal, the Lord of the North. Now, his homecoming was seen as the final promise of peace in the realm.

  Pharikian spent much of the morning on the Tower battlements, eagerly watching for the cavalcade heralding his son’s imminent arrival. Sullyan joined him in the cool spring sunshine, accompanied by her friends. It was mid-morning before they finally heard the trumpets and caught sight of the banners carried by the heralds riding in the fore. The pale sun glinted from swords and lances, and Sullyan was surprised at the size of the party. The banners proclaimed that Lord Tikhal himself had accompanied the Heir, bringing a large number of his own household to swell the Prince’s retinue. There must have been over three hundred people in their entourage.

  The Prince and the Lord of the North rode at the head of the company, just behind the heralds. They were surrounded by an honor guard whose cloaks bore the colors of both noble Houses, and whose rank badges shone in the sunlight. The horses were caparisoned in the colors of their riders’ families, and there was a palpable air of gaiety and festivity over all.

  Sullyan remained on the battlements as Pharikian descended to greet his son. He had asked her to accompany him, but she firmly demurred, saying that his first greeting should be private. This was their moment and their triumph, and she would have ample opportunity to meet the Prince later. She watched from the Tower as Pharikian and Idrimar, flanked by Barrin and the Velletian Guard, rode down to the northern gate to welcome the returning Heir.

  Even from her lofty vantage point, she could see that Aeyron was a tall, lean young man, very like his father and sister in build. But whereas Idrimar’s hair was dark, as her father’s must have been when he was younger, Aeyron’s was a bright and shining blond. There was no mistaking him among Tikhal’s entourage. It seemed to Sullyan that he was not as mindful of protocol as Pharikian had led her to believe, for as soon as he saw his father, he leapt down from his tall bay stallion and ran toward him. The Hierarch also dismounted, and the pair embraced fondly, unembarrassed by the show of emotion. Then Aeyron turned to his sister and swept her up in a huge bear-hug which must have left her breathless. Even on the battlements, Sullyan heard their delighted laughter.

  She noticed that Marik had also remained in the Citadel, and guessed he was too unsure of his position or his welcome to intrude upon this family reunion. She smiled. She was sure Aeyron would willingly accept the Count, as the young man was clearly very fond of his sister.

  The first rush of emotion over, Pharikian then greeted Lord Tikhal, who was now his most powerful noble since the demise of Rykan. Sullyan was interested and relived to see that the handshakes these two mighty lords exchanged were informal and friendly. Tikhal was trusted implicitly. If not, Aeyron would never have been sent into his care.

  Formalities over, the cavalcade moved at a statel
y pace around the Citadel walls, entering via the south gate so they could ride up the Processional Way in front of the townspeople. The roar of the crowds, the cheering and acclaim they accorded their Prince, reached clearly up to the battlements, telling Sullyan just how deeply the populace loved the Heir. A general holiday had been declared by the palace and the townsfolk were making the most of it. Street parties and feasting were already underway in many parts of the town.

  Once the cavalcade was well on its way, Sullyan suggested that she and her companions should return to their rooms to begin preparing for the celebrations. There was to be a huge banquet in the Great Hall with music, dancing, singing, and all manner of entertainments which would continue all afternoon and evening—probably until there was no one left who could eat, sing, or dance any longer.

  The men retired to Bull and Taran’s chambers while Sullyan and Rienne helped each other in the Major’s suite. Pharikian had seen to it that both women had new gowns for the occasion, and that the men had fine shirts, tunics, and breeches. Sullyan’s gown was of spring-green satin. It clung to her and flowed around her body like a shimmering jade waterfall. She was still thinner than usual and it showed, but she was slowly regaining her health and strength. She left her wealth of tawny hair loose, binding it simply around her brow with a single fillet of gold. Her fire opal flashed at her throat, and she had begged a subtle, flowery perfume from Idrimar that just hinted at summer meadows.

  Rienne’s gown was also satin; a deep, royal blue that accentuated the darkness of her hair and the soft grey of her eyes. She had a silver clasp in her hair to hold it out of her eyes, and Idrimar had lent her a heavy rope of silver for her throat. She looked regal in her new attire, and her only sadness was that Cal was not there to see her.

  “That might be just as well,” observed Sullyan dryly when Rienne voiced her regret. “If he saw you looking like that, the pair of you would not make it to the banquet at all!”

  Rienne smiled coyly.

  When the men entered after politely tapping on the door, there were gasps of admiration all round. Bull, already very fond of Rienne, instantly fell in love with her, never having seen her dressed so finely before. Robin, however, only had eyes for his lady, and Sullyan’s prediction concerning Cal’s reaction was also true of the Captain. Her smile promised shared delights later.

  Poor Taran was as badly affected as ever by the sight of Sullyan and was nearly overcome by the strength of his desire. He valiantly tried to conceal it, but it was naked in his hazel eyes whenever he looked at her, and obvious in the way he studiously avoided looking at her. She was aware of his feelings—his emanations were too plain to miss—but there was nothing she could do to help him. Robin gave no sign of noticing Taran’s hopeless infatuation, but Sullyan knew he was aware of it too.

  The men were simply dressed in fine lawn shirts of various hues, sleeveless tunics that showed off their muscular forms, and dark breeches. Sullyan commented on how handsome they looked, knowing that the unattached ladies in the palace would find both Bull and Taran irresistible. However, she decided against warning them both to be careful; it would remind them too forcibly of the last banquet they had attended. Bull was well versed in such occasions, and she knew she could trust him to keep an eye on Taran. Although, she reflected ruefully, if the Adept’s expression was anything to go by, he would pay little attention to anyone else that evening.

  She sighed. That particular problem would have to wait.

  At the appointed hour, a page arrived to escort them to the Great Hall. The huge vaulted room was hung with bright banners and bedecked with lavish tapestries. The tables were laden with all manner of foods, fruits, and sweets, and positively glittered with gold and silver plate, jeweled cutlery, and whatever early flowers and greenery the gardeners had been able to procure. Every noble, every palace dignitary and lady was there, and all were presented to the Heir and Lord Tikhal as they arrived. Pharikian had asked Sullyan and her friends to enter next to last. As the Champion of the Crown he felt it was her due, and she could hardly refuse.

  So it was that they made a grand entrance at the top of the marble stairs leading down into the Great Hall. Baron Gaslek, acting as Master of Ceremonies, caused the huge silver gong to boom when he saw Sullyan and her party approaching. The Major paced serenely forward on Robin’s arm, his dark blue shirt and gold trimmed tunic complementing her green gown to perfection. Gaslek formally announced their names, adding Champion of the Crown to Sullyan’s other titles. Rienne and Taran were both surprised to find the epithet Captain attributed to them, as they had virtually forgotten their honorary and temporary Manor rank.

  Bull had begged and been granted the right to escort Rienne, and he looked as proud as he could be leading her down the stairs behind Sullyan and Robin. Taran walked at Rienne’s other side. They were then presented to Lord Tikhal, a man in his late thirties with long, dark, curling hair and pale blue eyes. He greeted them warmly, his slit-pupilled gaze lingering appreciatively over Sullyan’s and Rienne’s slim forms. Then they moved to stand before the Heir, and Pharikian himself made the introductions.

  Master Artesan Aeyron Pharikian was possibly an inch or two taller than his father and had the same long, straight nose and generous mouth. His eyes were a shade paler than the Hierarch’s, reflecting the light blond of his hair. His manner was open and friendly, his voice a pleasant baritone. Taking Sullyan’s hand as she made him a deep obeisance, he raised it to his lips. “I am very pleased to meet you at last, Lady Brynne.” Smiling into her eyes, he raised her. “My father and I are deeply in your debt. If there is ever anything we can do for you, you must not hesitate to ask.”

  She replied demurely. “Your Highness is most kind. I was pleased to be able to give service to Andaryon’s Crown.”

  As the others were introduced, Sullyan and Robin moved on down the line. When they had all completed this part of the proceedings, a trilling fanfare sounded from the double doors at the top of the marble stairs. All conversation ceased, every head turned. Sullyan watched the Prince’s expression closely as the final pair of guests stepped through the doors. She smiled with real pleasure to see Ty Marik with the Princess Idrimar on his arm, proud of his steady gait. She was well aware that his legs had lost all strength.

  Marik had taken great care over his attire and wore his customary maroon velvet, trimmed now with gold. His clothes were cut to accentuate his lean height, and on his breast lay the heavy gold chain that was a gift from Pharikian for his part in Rykan’s defeat. He stood straight and tall with Idrimar by his side, the stately Princess looking serene and happy in an extravagant gown of purple and gold. Her color choice did rather clash with that of her intended, but no one attending this special occasion was going to quibble over the niceties of fashion.

  Baron Gaslek sang out their names, and the pair paced regally down the marble stairs.

  They came to a halt before the Prince, and Sullyan watched Aeyron closely. The Heir wore a carefully neutral expression rather than the smile she might have expected, and she caught a flicker of uncertainty in Idrimar’s eyes. Gaslek, who had followed them down, now formally introduced the Count, and Marik executed a deep and courtly bow before holding out his hand to the Prince, who took it.

  “I am honored indeed to make your acquaintance, Count Marik,” said the Heir, his voice curiously devoid of inflection. “I tender my heartfelt thanks for your aid in averting Lord Rykan’s threat. Andaryon’s Crown stands forever in your debt.”

  His tone was neutral, even cold, and Sullyan saw Princess Idrimar fix her brother with a pleading, desperate gaze. According to the customs of Andaryon’s ruling House, she had to obtain both her father’s and her brother’s permission before she could wed. She already had Pharikian’s blessing, but the Prince could block the union if he didn’t approve her choice.

  Looking pale, her voice trembling slightly, she said, “Your Highness, my brother. I formally ask your permission to marry this man, Ty Marik, Count and L
ord of the lands of Cardon, within the fiefdom of Kymer. My father has already given me his blessing and approval. Will you do the same?”

  Aeyron turned pale yellow eyes upon his sister. He seemed to consider a moment before saying clearly, “I do deeply regret it, my sister, but I cannot approve this match.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  A shocked gasp sounded from the assembled guests. Idrimar turned white, while Marik stood there trembling, his eyes a little wild. Rienne clutched at Sullyan’s arm and hissed, “What’s the matter with him? He can’t do this, it’ll break her heart!”

  Sullyan didn’t take her eyes off the Hierarch. She murmured, “Hush, Rienne. Just wait.”

  Pharikian stepped forward. “My son and Heir,” he said formally, “by what reason do you reject this match?”

  The younger man glanced from Marik to Idrimar, noting their stricken expressions. “I reject it by reason of status, Majesty. My sister is a Princess of the ruling House of Pharikian. This man is merely a Count. There is no parity in the match.”

  Guessing what was coming, Sullyan smiled. Marik and Idrimar must have caught on too, because they both visibly relaxed.

  Pharikian turned to Gaslek, who approached his ruler bearing a highly polished ceremonial blade. He offered it to the Hierarch, who took it and turned to Marik. “Count Ty Marik, step forth.”

  Marik released the Princess’s arm and moved forward to stand before the Hierarch. He was still trembling, but now with anticipation.

  Pharikian’s deep voice rang out, true and strong. “Ty Marik, for seven years you held the lands of Cardon under your liege-lord, the rebel Rykan, Duke of Kymer. Rykan died a traitor’s death by the hand of the Crown, and so all his lands and fiefs are forfeit. They have reverted to the Crown, and thus I proclaim you landless.”

  Despite his hope for the Hierarch’s intentions, Marik turned pale. For a noble, even a lowly one, to be proclaimed landless was tantamount to becoming outcast.