Ricatus’s eyes widened just a little. In the heat of the moment, he had forgotten that Rhiain was now noble. When Lord Ridmark had knighted Niall, that meant that Rhiain was technically a noblewoman as well. The lowest rank of nobility, true, but still a noble.
“I see,” said Ricatus. He took a deep breath, his hands flexing. “I apologize for my remarks about your aunt, Sir Niall. They were ill-considered.”
Niall wanted to hit him. He really, really wanted to plant his fist in Ricatus’s face. A deep well of loathing simmered inside of him, and he wanted to attack Ricatus for all the pain and hardship the villagers of Ebor had endured, all the suffering that had come for them simply because Ricatus had been greedy.
But he was a knight now, and knights had duties.
“Accepted,” Niall ground out.
“Then this matter is closed,” said Ricatus, and he turned and stalked back into his tent.
“Come,” said Decimus. “I think some more wine would not go amiss.”
They walked back to Niall’s tent and sat around the campfire. Decimus passed around the wineskin, and they all took a drink.
“That scoundrel,” said Niall. “Bad enough that he drove all my neighbors off their lands. Or that he tries to cheat whores. But for him to say such evil things about my aunt…”
“I suspect my father would say,” said Rufinius, “that if one must be the sort of man who lies with whores, at least do not be the sort of man who cheats them.”
“I crave your pardon,” said Niall. “I should not have let him goad me.”
Rufinius shrugged. “Every man has a temper. And insults to one’s kin are not lightly borne. The Lady Rhiain raised you as her own, did she not?” Niall nodded. “I am, as you know, a bastard. My father lay in sin with my mother. He would be the first to admit it. She has been dead many years now, God rest her soul. But if a man like Ricatus insulted her…I would be sore pressed to hold my temper.”
Niall let out a long breath. “I am just glad you stopped me from doing anything foolish. I already embarrassed myself before Lord Ridmark with Pompeia. I do not want to repeat the experience by brawling with Sir Ricatus.”
“You might be too hard on yourself about that business with Pompeia, lad,” said Decimus, scratching at his jaw. “You did save my life, and you kept Lhanwyn from handing over the town to Count Rhellgar.”
Niall had done that by killing Lhanwyn. He would have saved Pompeia, if he could have, even knowing that she was a serpent.
But the goblin arrows had made the decision for him.
“Thank you, though,” said Niall. “For stopping me just now.”
“As iron sharpens iron,” said Rufinius, “so one man sharpens another.”
“Or to put it a way that doesn’t involve a quote from the scriptures,” said Decimus, clapping Niall on the back, “what are friends for? Now. Speaking of friendship, do you have any more wine?”
***
Chapter 9: Muridachs
Third awoke in silence, alone in the large bed.
She stared at the ceiling of white stone for a moment, her eyes making sense of the strange sight. The light coming through the window was all wrong. It was a strange bluish tint, with a hint of yellow-orange, not the proper color of dawn at all…
At least not the color of a dawn in Andomhaim.
In the Empire of the Franks, in the Imperial capital of Sinderost, it was a perfectly normal light.
Third sat up in bed, looking around as her mind came to wakefulness.
Few of her sensations lately had been anything like normal, at least compared to the previous thousand years of her life.
She was in the bedroom she shared with Rilmael in Duke Chilmar Rigamond’s mansion. Given the Duke’s obvious disdain for luxury, Third had been surprised that the mansion was so comfortable. But she understood that like the nobles of Andomhaim, the lords of the Empire took great pride in displaying their largess and generosity. The comforts of the mansion were meant to display Chilmar’s wealth and power, his status as a good and generous lord.
Since Third was the beneficiary of that, she could not complain.
She rose to her feet, pulling up the blanket as she did. She had fallen asleep naked, as had become her habit since Cathair Kaldran, and she swirled the blanket around her shoulders like a cloak or maybe a robe. Her hair hung loose and tangled around her neck and shoulders, disheveled from both sleep and from Rilmael running his hands through it…
That was another new sensation. Third was not used to being desired.
She stepped from the bedroom and into the sitting room. Like the bedroom, it was large and comfortable, with couches, chairs and a round wooden table with chairs around it. Rilmael sat alone at the table, eating and drinking, already dressed for the day, though he had not yet donned his cloak and armor. He saw her approach, smiled, and rose to his feet.
“Good morning.” The Guardian gave her a quick kiss. “I thought you might like to sleep yet.”
“I did,” said Third. “But hunger can be stronger than fatigue.” He drew out a chair for her, and Third found herself smiling at the courtly gesture. She sat, and Rilmael followed suit.
“Bread and tea,” he said, pushing a plate towards her. It held the coarse bread the Franks preferred for their breakfasts. “The tea has gone cold, I’m afraid.”
Third shrugged and gestured over the clay pot, calling magic. She worked a minor spell, and a small flame leaped from her palm and washed over the pot, heating the tea within. That too was a new sensation. Or, rather, an old one returned. For a thousand years as an urdhracos, a hybrid of dark elf and human, Third had been able to use magic. When she had transformed and cast off her shackles, she had lost her ability to wield magical power, and she had not missed it. But the power radiating from the tomb of the Ascendant Dragon in Cathair Kaldran was so great that it had reawakened her lost magical talent.
“Practical as ever,” said Rilmael.
Third poured herself a cup of tea. “If I must bear the responsibility of magical power, at least I do not have to drink cold tea.”
She took a sip and stared at the steam rising from the dark liquid, remembering the fire that had lashed from her palm to heat it.
Fire…
When Third had still been an urdhracos, she had been able to sense the auras of powerful dark elven lords, her mind interpreting the aura as a song of majesty and terror, of thunderous power and molten dread. After she had transformed, her own song, stronger than any dark elven lord, had filled her blood like fire.
But now a new fire filled her mind.
She felt the fire of the Malison in her thoughts, waiting for her to call upon it. The men of the Empire lived in dread of the Malison, the Dragon Curse. If they used too much magic, the Malison would overwhelm them, and they would transform into dragons. They would be enslaved as Third had once been enslaved by her father. When Solthalis had driven Ghostruin into her chest, Third had let that fire fill her.
She had embraced it and mastered it…and the fire had transformed her again. Third was now a Dragontiarna Knight, able to shift between her true form and the shape of a dragon at will. That made her one of the most powerful people in the Frankish Empire. And if she lived long enough to return home, it would make her one of the strongest people in Andomhaim. There would be few able to stand against her.
Third gazed at Rilmael across the table.
Did she want to return home? Yes, of course she did. Her sister and her friends were all there.
But neither did she want to leave Rilmael. The Guardian understood her, as few ever had. Third had never been in love before, but she found it agreeable. And she and Rilmael shared a secret.
In all the Frankish Empire, in all of Cathair Kaldran, they were the only two people who truly knew the source of the Malison, the magic radiating from the tomb of the Ascendant Dragon.
Rilmael remained silent. He seemed to feel no need to break into her thoughts. Given how much of her life Third had
spent alone, it was one of the things she appreciated about him.
“I wonder,” said Third at last.
“About what?” said Rilmael.
“About what one talks about with a lover the morning after,” said Third. “I confess I have never given the matter any thought before.”
“Whatever you want,” said Rilmael. He smiled. “The weather and the upcoming day are both popular topics.”
“You are mocking me,” said Third.
“Not at all,” said Rilmael. “We’re about to accompany an army on the march. The weather is a rather urgent topic, as it happens.” He paused, his smile fading. “You haven’t had much…gentleness in your life, have you?”
“No,” said Third. She thought about it. “Once I might have regretted that, but not any longer. I was not made for gentleness, but for war. It is my nature. And there are worthy foes to fight and innocent lives to defend. I will not regret what I am.”
“Yet you are still uneasy,” said Rilmael.
“No,” said Third again. She considered it some more. “Somewhat.” She lifted a hand and gestured at herself. “A great change has come over me. I have weathered such transformations before. But the experience is still unsettling.”
“It is,” said Rilmael. He paused. “I do not presume to command you. We are equals, Third, in a way that few others could be.”
Third raised an eyebrow. “You have lived much longer than I have, and command greater magic than I do.”
“This is so,” said Rilmael. “For that matter, I cannot transform into a great black dragon, nor can I transport myself hundreds of yards in the blink of an eye.” Third inclined her head to concede the point. “But I can advise you. I think you need something to do. You are a warrior, as you said.”
“What do you suggest I do?” said Third.
“Go with Tyrcamber,” said Rilmael. “He is riding out from Sinderost today to investigate the Fallen Order’s earthworks on the western bank of the River Nabia.”
“Then you think there is a potential danger in Count Niamar’s report?” said Third.
“I don’t know,” said Rilmael. “And that troubles me. Perhaps it is nothing. Perhaps Count Niamar’s men had the ill fortune to encounter a band of muridach raiders and stumbled across a group of wraiths.” He shrugged. “For that matter, both Count Niamar and the Shield of Falconberg are ambitious men and joined by a shared bond of affection for Lady Sigurd. Perhaps they have hatched some stratagem that requires a Dragontiarna Knight’s presence outside the city.”
“But you do not think so,” said Third.
“No,” said Rilmael. “The Sight came to me before Tyrcamber accepted the Count’s invitation. It was…maddeningly vague. The Sight is infinite, but my mind is not. And I often cannot understand what I see. But I did know something of importance was about to happen.”
Third frowned. “Why did you not go with him, then?”
It was Rilmael’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Because I would rather have spent the afternoon with you.”
“Ah,” said Third. It had indeed been an enjoyable afternoon.
“But Count Niamar and the Shield might have stumbled across something important, something dangerous,” said Rilmael. “Theudeuric’s strategy has been strange. You have great experience of war, you must have noticed it.” Third nodded. “His strategy has been…erratic. Almost flighty. As if he cannot make a decision. But I doubt the Warden would choose someone that unstable to take a dark soulblade.”
“The Theophract gave one to Solthalis, and he was not stable,” said Third.
“True,” said Rilmael. “We both know what the Warden wishes to claim.” Third nodded. “He doesn’t care what strategy he uses, so long as it works. But Theudeuric…is it possible he is more subtle than we realize? That his unpredictability has been a mask for something deeper, more dangerous?”
“If you do not understand your foe,” said Third, “it is unlikely you will defeat him.”
“Precisely,” said Rilmael. “Sir Tyrcamber and Sir Angaric are going to investigate. Perhaps they will learn more of what our enemies intend. If they come across foes, they may need your aid.”
“I would rather spend the day with you,” said Third. “What are you going to do?”
Rilmael grinned. “I am going to advise Prince Everard and Duke Chilmar on the coronation. Some of the Dukes are not entirely certain of their loyalty, and Chilmar wants to make sure there are no defections.”
“I see,” said Third. “I love you…but I would rather spend the day hunting for the plots of the Fallen Order than listen to the Dukes of the Empire drone on about lordly precedence.”
“I love you, too,” said Rilmael, “and you are a wise woman, Lady Third.”
###
“I think,” announced Selene, “I shall accompany you.”
“You shall?” said Tyrcamber. “Excellent.”
He stood in the great hall of his father’s mansion, clad in the golden armor of a Dragontiarna Knight, Kyathar resting in its scabbard upon his belt. Angaric would be meeting him presently with the horses, and then they would take one of the ferries across the River Nabia to investigate the unfinished earthworks of the Fallen Order. Tyrcamber had been convinced by Count Niamar’s and Karl Rincimar’s account. He didn’t know Niamar Eichenfel well enough to make any judgments about the man’s character, though Sigurd seemed pleased with him, and that was a point in his favor. But Tyrcamber knew Karl Rincimar, and if the grim former mercenary captain thought there was a threat, then Tyrcamber expected an unknown danger.
The Guardian agreed with him, though his Sight had been unable to find anything strange about the earthworks. But the Sight, as Rilmael often reminded Tyrcamber, was neither omniscient nor infallible.
“Excellent?” said Selene. She wore her usual blue tunic and leather jerkin, dark trousers, and polished boots, the sword and axe ready at her belt. “You don’t find my endless speech tiresome?”
Tyrcamber snorted. “I’ve seen you fight. I would rather you were on my side. Besides, you and Angaric can amuse each other.”
Selene laughed. “He is an amusing fellow. Will Lady Ruari be joining us?”
“No,” said Tyrcamber. “She left already. She and Adalberga want to look after the wounded from the siege, and then check the preparations for the hospital tents.”
“Lady Ruari seems to have an exceedingly well-organized mind,” said Selene. “If you ever find yourself the lord of vast estates, you ought to give over the management of them to her. She’ll make you the richest man in the Frankish Empire.”
Tyrcamber grunted. Wealth itself had very little appeal to him. Though he understood its necessity – both a lord and an army needed money to function.
“Unless Count Eichenfel beats you there,” said Selene. “He seems a man to grasp the value of commerce. I heard one of the Frankish priests say that all human society can be divided into three parts – the clergy are the head, the knights and nobles are the arms, and the commoners are the feet and legs.”
“I’ve heard priests say the same thing,” said Tyrcamber. His father believed that and was annoyed by the very idea of the Imperial Free Cities and merchants. Though once the Valedictor’s invasion had started, his father had readily enough taken taxes from the Free Cities and accepted their militia levies into the Emperor’s army.
“That may be true,” said Selene, “but if priests are the head, knights are the arms, and commoners are the feet, then commerce and merchants are the blood.” Tyrcamber had never considered it in that light, but it made sense. “Count Niamar would get on well with my cousin’s husband, Prince Consort Jager. They would try to out-bargain each other, but they would make a great deal of money.”
“Huh,” was all that Tyrcamber could think to say, but Selene kept talking.
“You will have to be careful,” said Selene. “Eventually the bankers and merchants will be more powerful than the lords. You’ll need someone to keep their power in check, or th
ey’ll grow corrupt.”
“I suppose the Frankish Empire will need to survive long enough for that to become a problem,” said Tyrcamber.
“A good point,” said Selene. “Which brings us to our task today, where…ah, cousin!”
Tyrcamber saw Third stride into the great hall. She wore the golden armor the Council of Cathair Kaldran had given her, the armor able to withstand the transformation of a Dragontiarna Knight. The hilts of her longswords rose over her shoulders. Her black hair had been done up in a severe crown to keep it out of her eyes, the length of her braid tucked into her armor to keep an enemy from getting a handle on her head. She looked formidable, and with the pointed tips of her ears, slightly alien. The ancient Dragontiarna Knights of old who had defended the cloak elves from the Dragon Imperator and his vassals must have looked like this.
“Lady Third,” said Tyrcamber.
“Sir Tyrcamber,” she responded. “I think I will accompany you today. The Guardian will be busy advising your father for the coronation, and I have no patience with such talk.”
“I will be glad of your aid, my lady,” said Tyrcamber, and he meant it. He had seen her fight, after all.
The doors to the courtyard opened, and Angaric strode inside, flanked by a pair of Duke Chilmar’s pages. Angaric wore his chain mail and plate beneath the crimson surcoat of the Order of Embers. Like Tyrcamber, he took the warning seriously.
“Good morning, Sir Tyrcamber,” said Angaric. He turned his most charming smile towards Third and Selene. “My ladies. Will you be joining us on a ride in the countryside this morning?”
Selene laughed. “How could we refuse such a gracious invitation?”
###
Tyrcamber led his horse onto the flat barge, Angaric, Third, and Selene following him.
The armies of the Empire had camped, for the most part, on the western bank of the River Nabia. But all the Dukes and many of their vassals had come into the city, and so a constant stream of messages went back and forth from the New City’s western harbor to the encamped armies. For that matter, some lords had built their own rafts, unwilling to entrust their messengers to the ferry barges. Fortunately, Tyrcamber’s prestige was enough to allow him to commandeer a barge, and they were rowed across the Nabia without incident.
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