“Who’s going to do my hair with so little time? What about the proper dress? Is there a color theme? Oh, who am I fooling? Arynn, dear, you wouldn’t know such things. Just tell me which wine you’ll be serving, and I’ll, of course, have my dress match the vintage.”
Arynn felt her cheeks warm with frustration. Must she always be like this? It was no wonder Fenwin spent much of his time off on missions. Being around Lady Estel all the time would have driven him insane. Or maybe it did.
As for the wine, she chose the same vintage that she and Sera had shared on the night of their reunion. “Cerez, year 139.”
The noblewoman huffed with disappointment, trying to pass it off as blowing a stray hair from her eye. Not that Estel ever had a single stray hair. Lady Crane was the walking embodiment of beauty and fashion; she had plenty of time to prepare herself. Arynn had cared little about her own appearance after Sera was taken. She started thinking about it again during her journey with Ben, but journeying across a kingdom with few extra clothes and no baths put a limit on her efforts. Still, she’d started wearing her hair differently, washing her face when she could. He’d never taken notice though. Not that it surprised her now, knowing all he really cared about was his cousin.
“Well, I do suppose I have something that will match. Oh, Eternal Mother, but do I have something that will fit you?”
Lady Estel was a tall woman, a good half foot taller than Arynn, and half her height were legs which rose and curved into wide hips and then again into a full chest.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll be wearing my uniform.” At every gathering, Arynn made it a point not to draw attention to her femininity. The nobles, Rhion, and the commoners didn’t need added reminders that she was not just an outsider but the first woman to head a province. Her hair would be raised into a military knot, and not a drop of make-up would color her pale face.
“That old drab? My, my, that’s not how you will impress my cousins.”
“I’m not looking to impress them, my lady,” Arynn said with coldness in her breath. “I’m their legate. I was brought here to govern. That is what I shall do.”
Lady Estel looked to the ceiling as if calling for the Sun Herself to put some sense into Arynn. “Very well, dearie. At least wear the earrings I had fitted for you.”
She was referring to the sapphire studs lined with miniature pearls. Sera had told her they brought out her eyes like the first glimpse of the clear bright sky after a summer storm. Unlike Ben, Sera had always noticed when Arynn changed something. Just the thought of Sera’s gleaming gaze when she would see her after the meeting tonight was enough to persuade Arynn to concede.
A week later, when the nobles arrived, Arynn sat in the old throne of rosewood and obsidian glass which danced with the reflection of the hearth’s flames. Though Lady Estel was the only living child of Vestinia after her father had died fighting for Xander in the takeover of Marzora, she still had an extensive family of aunts, uncles, and cousins. It was her marriage to Fenwin and the strong relationship with the Vestinian people that Xander had forged that kept stability in Vestinia after King Hartwin perished.
Now that Lady Estel was left without a husband or even a single child after more than a decade together, Arynn worried what the Vestinian nobles would think of her on their ancestral throne. Candles flickered, and Arynn’s chest fluttered along with them, fearful of the impression she’d have on these people. Sera had been right; she’d pushed this meeting off for far too long. She’d met each of them at least once—enough to recall their names and faces but little else about them.
There were five nobles present, including Estel. It would be foolish to expect all thirty-something men, women, and children to come on such short notice. Chairs and small end tables had been lain out by Estel’s servants, each with a platter of a different cheese and meat along with a glass for their Cerez red.
Lisurgius sat in the middle of the arched arrangement, nearest the hearth opposite Arynn’s throne. He was a man in his sixties with a graying beard and a long scar that ran diagonally across his face. She remembered him well, as he was Estel’s eldest uncle who—if the tales could be believed—had challenged Fenwin when he’d been named legate to ensure he was strong enough to lead their people. He’d received his scar that day and permanently lost the use of his right leg.
Two chairs down from Lisurgius, Wilheard coughed and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He hadn’t touched the food nor the wine. He was younger than all the other nobles save for Estel herself. Arynn recalled little else about the man, but by the look on his face, she worried about what might come from his mouth.
“You’ve certainly set up an occasion last-minute, Legate.” Wilheard started. His voice was coarse like sand. “Planning on telling us what it’s about?”
“Cousin, come now, there’s no need to be so rude to our lady here,” Estel said between sips of wine. Her dress was a cold purple with a sleeve along her right arm and a collar that reached just under her chin. It looked both suffocating and radiant at the same time.
“Niece, he does have a point.” This from the elderly woman by Estel’s side, Opelia. Her hair was covered by a bonnet, and she carried a shiny and decorated cane by her side.
“I called you here to discuss the governance of Vestinia while I am away at battle. Despite the ration, I want to ensure the commoners do not go hungry and the slaves are still freed as we agreed upon according to the plan the king and I established.”
Lisirgius and the other men groaned. They’d made it clear early in Arynn’s rule that they disagreed with her method of freeing slaves.
The truth of slavery in Ænæria had been far crueler than Arynn once thought. She’d first heard from Darius and Trinity that slaves were only sent to Ignistad. That was a lie. Slavery had been a well-established practice in the Northern Kingdoms long before Xander had united them. Royal families and minor clans utilized the free labor to build up their reputations and the very infrastructure of the kingdoms for over a century. Apollin, Jun, and Bacchuso were the only kingdoms to have built themselves with any sort of integrity. But the whole of Ænæria thought the practice had been extinguished when Xander came to power. It was one of his greatest selling points. Slaves would only exist in Ignistad to fortify the capital and strengthen the king’s hold on the realm. Then they’d be released after fifteen years of servitude. It had been a powerful lie that made it easier for commoners to swallow the reality of having to give up their first-born sons to the ranks of the Rhion. If people had to give up their other children or themselves for slavery, Xander would never have gained the astounding support he’d had.
But the nobles still needed a free workforce. Otherwise, the provinces would never have enough money to continue military development and expansion. With the official mandate of slaves only in Ignistad, legates and nobles had to get creative. Prisoners were given reduced sentences for free labor. Orphans were taken in by nobles and raised to be servants without pay, claiming that being raised with food and shelter was more than enough compensation. When that still wasn’t enough, they contracted wastelanders to bring in people from outside Ænæria, no questions asked.
“As we’ve told you before,” Aelfred began. He sat beside Lisurgius, his father. They bore a striking resemblance—the wildfire in his eyes a reflection of the dim embers burning in his father’s. “We don’t have the funds to free all the slaves. We’ve gone decades without paying for our services. They’re given meals and shelter; blazes, most of them get to live in their own little hamlet just outside First Hearth. Is this not enough?”
“Already a fifth of our slaves have been released from service to pick up jobs left behind by traitors, just as you and the king had planned,” Wilheard said. “And already many of them struggle. These people were not made for skilled trades left behind by the traitors. What’s more, they have no homes now. Some live on the streets like rats while the lucky few stay with kind strangers. How long can that kindness last, I w
onder? We cannot continue housing them if they are not providing services, and there simply isn’t room for them in the hamlet. Yet so many have already come to us begging to return to servitude. It is all they know.”
Arynn opened her mouth, ready for a retort, but she was spoken over by Aelfred, the man sitting at the end of the half-circle of chairs to Arynn’s right.
“With the ration and war, we need to be careful with our sols. The money to pay slaves as servants has to come from somewhere. If they’re to have their own homes, that will cost as well. Will the king himself pay for this? Shall we expect him to do all of that across the kingdom?”
Before making her argument, Arynn pondered the points a moment. When the king had said she’d hold the power to free Vestinia from slavery, she really thought taking up the legate’s mantle was the right thing for her to do. It was like she was meant for this task. She came from a home free of slavery, and the woman she loved had been taken from her and sold into that very horror. Sera had served the noble Persefino clan in Plutonua after being abducted by the wastelanders. Soon after Gatron’s ‘resurrection,’ Sera had been freed by Randolph and brought to Vestinia. The way the Persefinos had treated her sickened Arynn. Sometimes she hoped Rose’s campaign toward Plutonua would succeed. It would save her the burden of having to march there herself to enact retribution upon Gatron’s loyal nobles.
It was that temper which got Arynn into this situation. She hadn’t thought through all the possible consequences. It was true—many of the freed slaves lived on the streets. Arynn had tried to house some of them in the mansion—much to Estel’s dismay—and it only ended in things being stolen with the culprits disappearing in the night, never to be seen again. She couldn’t hope to house and feed all of them herself, especially if some of them acted that way.
Arynn really wished she had someone on her side in this matter. Even after being reunited with Sera, she was still so alone here. No one with experience to go to for advice. Memnon and Estel were the closest to advisors she had, and on things they differed on so fundamentally, of course, they were no help. I’m such a fool, thinking I could confront the very blood of Vestinia all on my own.
“The king himself appointed me as your legate. He and I came up with the strategy to free the slaves. It’s going to happen.” Without an advocate, Arynn knew she’d have to cave—more than she’d anticipated going into this meeting. She could already taste Sera’s disappointment in her failure. “But it won’t have to be immediate. Lady Estel, while I am away to battle in the coming weeks, Prefect Memnon and I will place a high-ranked Rhion to take charge of the First Hearth’s defenses. I would like you to oversee the governance of the province in my absence. Dip into the Crane treasury to make it happen while I’m away. Do that, and you’ll all have first pick at Vänalleato’s treasures. It will more than repay you. The Elders have all sorts of gems and riches stashed away that they’ll have no need for once my army occupies the town. They have no royal family of their own, and following our victory, they’ll belong to Vestinia. What do you say?”
The nobles seemed to salivate at the idea of more treasures coming their way. Arynn knew she could fund most of the relocation efforts with the winnings from Vänalleato. It would save her money to wait until she returned with the bountiful hoard slumbering below the great Vänalleatian cathedral. Alas, she couldn’t wait that long. The trip to Vänalleato, plus the time she would spend there before making it back to First Hearth, was too long. Every day she walked the path of war was another day a person was still enslaved or else hungry and begging on the streets. Most of the Cranes respected Estel enough that they’d obey her mandates and honor her treasury withdrawals.
Genuine shock spread across the noblewoman’s face. Few things made the woman silent, and though Estel often put on an oblivious face, Arynn suspected she’d not actually seen this coming. There was a thirst steeping in her eyes—the thirst of woman who’d grown up thinking she was supposed to have power only to have it taken from her by foreigner after foreigner.
Arynn hoped to use that to her own advantage.
Estel placed her glass against her side table and crossed her legs. “Oh my,” she managed. “I accept. Oh, but of course I accept!”
Arynn hid a smile. “What say the rest of you?”
The Cranes exchanged looks while Arynn held her breath, hoping their love of money and the old king’s daughter were enough. Lady Estel had earned Arynn’s trust over the last three moons she’d spent mentoring Arynn about courtly affairs and Vestinian history. Now was the moment to see if that construction of trust had been worth the effort.
Lisirgius nodded to Old Opelia and Aelfred. His meaty palm batted his son’s back, and his crooked teeth caught the light as he smiled at Lady Estel. It was like the Crane clan had talked without uttering a word.
Estel clapped her hands delicately. “It’s agreed. How wonderful! Upon your return from victory, Vestinia will be entirely slave-free!”
29
Ben
The Mouth of Ney
After confirming the Vault’s location on the motion block on Hüginn’s forehead, Ben and the others made their way to the scouts’ main barracks. Skalle had talked to some of his loyal brethren and convinced them to explore the Mouth of Ney. They had all known Gal during his days of sanity and knew there wasn’t something right about the man after that one night.
Skalle led the way, wearing a set of thick leather armor and two bastard swords on his back. Ben followed close behind, gripping the Voidsweeper strapped to his side tightly. He and the others wore armor similar to Skalle’s—all from the scout barracks, though Ben doubted it would do much good against an Enochian.
Darius held Legate’s Bane close; the weapon had had ample time to charge in the sun during the days Ben, Skalle, and Gus had prepared for the venture to the Vault. Mandi carried her wide array of knives and even had a small pistol and an extra magazine of ammunition. Liv had a short bow and quiver of about two dozen arrows. Ben doubted they’d do much good.
Gus, surprisingly, had some weapons and armor of his own. On his back he carried a large round shield made of steel, painted with the red and yellow of Marzora; on his right hip, he wore a three-foot-long sheath carrying a curved saber with a hilt just as long as the blade. He’d donned sharp shoulder pads, a bronze chest plate, and a helmet sporting a red horsehair tail. In many ways, it looked distinctly similar to a legate’s armor, with the helmet being the main exception. As Ben looked closer, he noticed the crossed spears of the Marzoran insignia on the chest plate. Gus had been a few years younger than Ben when he’d been brought to Ney. There was no way the armor would have fit him then. Ben wondered if it belonged to the man who’d protected him along the wastes from their ravaged home.
Draka didn’t exactly like their plan. She’d stopped the group of Ben’s friends and the ten scouts as they made their way to the northwestern city exit.
“Snooping around the Mouth,” she said with clear distaste in her voice. “Disrespectful, this thing is.”
She and Skalle argued in Orkish, but after a few exchanges, Ben decided to intercede.
“Draka, please. We need to go there. It may show us how to stop the Curse of Tatanka from spreading.”
Draka sneered hideously. “You know not of such things, eyoni.”
“I’m no eyoni,” Ben countered. “None of us are. We passed your trial.”
“Cheating. You used the wolf.”
“Yet I was allowed in Kokopolis anyway. I was even granted an audience with the Sachems.”
“Despite my protestations.”
Ben smirked. “So you disagree with the Sachems, then?”
Draka groaned. She looked uncomfortable by the accusation. “Some decisions they have made of late…questionable, they are.”
“Please, Draka,” Skalle said in Archayin. “You remember my brother. Something changed him. The Curse has changed. The Sachems know of it and yet hide it. I trust Ben. He may be able to help our p
eople.”
Draka let out a guttural string of words in Orkish that sounded like curses. She abruptly turned and walked away toward the barracks.
“Is that it? Can we go?” Darius asked.
“Wait,” Skalle said, looking off in Draka’s direction.
A few minutes passed and then Draka returned in armor of her own, a medium-sized spear in her hands and a rifle slung across her back.
“Where’d she get that?” Mandi asked, also noticing the rifle.
“The scout masters hold the most powerful weapons,” Skalle explained. “Treasures from battles with the eyoni.”
“Bloody wastes, even Larz’s crew didn’t have guns,” Liv said. “This lady’s strong.”
“You’re a part of Larz’s crew,” Mandi said.
“Naw, not no more. You all is my crew now.”
Mandi rolled her eyes and sighed.
Skalle and Draka exchanged a few more words in Orkish, which sounded a little less offensive than their last conversation. They turned to Ben and the others.
“Now we may proceed,” Skalle said.
The Mouth of Ney roared like a beast in a frenzy. The falls crashed with such force that sprinkles of cool water speckled against Ben’s brow and mixed with the beads of nervous sweat. The sun had yet to set, the bright orange glow shining against the drops of water like floating crystals.
Nearly twenty minutes after exiting Kokopolis, Sierra silently approached them from the ruins of the Old Days’ city and dead wood. A number of the scouts gasped in shock and fear, most of which readied their weapons for a fight.
The Heir of Ænæria Page 37
