King of Ashes

by Raymond E. Feist

  Hava smiled. ‘A warm bed every night, and playing a wife instead of a whore? That sounds very agreeable.’ She paused, then said, ‘Speaking of Declan, am I bereft of my senses, or does he look a great deal like the baron?’

  Hatu’s eyes widened. ‘That’s why I thought I’d seen him before! Yes, there is a resemblance.’ From their history lessons, both of them knew that many nobles had bastards, and if there was any kinship between Declan and Baron Daylon, then it was hardly remarkable.

  Hava said, ‘Well, let us find an inn, eat, and make some plans …’ She smiled, and then added, ‘Husband.’

  He reached over and almost pulled her out of her saddle. She laughed and said, ‘What?’

  He hugged her close and whispered into her ear. ‘I have always loved you, Hava, ever since we were children. I just didn’t realise it until we came on this journey together.’

  She pulled away a little. Her eyes glistened as tears welled within them. She blinked them away and said, ‘And I you. You are my heart.’

  He grinned and wiped his own tears away with the back of his hand. ‘It seems we have a great deal to share. And …’ he laughed, ‘I’m still very hungry.’

  She couldn’t help but laugh in return. ‘I am as well.’

  ‘And perhaps, wife, we can … discuss what you’ve learned from the Powdered Women after we eat?’

  She regarded him for a moment and then gave him one of her teasing smiles. ‘Perhaps.’

  DECLAN STOOD MOTIONLESS, HOLDING THE reins of his restless horse. He’d been waiting at the gate for the better part of an hour after dealing with a reluctant guard, who finally agreed to send word to the castle that the smith from Beran’s Hill sought an audience with the baron.

  Finally the familiar figure of Balven appeared and walked towards him. When close enough to be heard, he said, ‘You need to speak with my lord?’

  Declan said, ‘Beran’s Hill was attacked.’

  ‘Was word sent to the garrison at Esterly?’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to speak to his lordship about, sir. It was over and done with before a rider could be sent to the garrison.’

  Balven looked at Declan and said, ‘Come with me.’ He signalled for a servant, a young boy, to come and take Declan’s horse. ‘Just wait. We won’t be long.’

  Balven led Declan into a small room where Baron Daylon was reading a report of some kind. He looked up and smiled. ‘The smith from the Covenant.’

  ‘From Beran’s Hill now, my lord.’

  ‘How fare things in Beran’s Hill, then … Declan, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. Things are not going well. We were attacked by a group of mercenaries who killed the owner of an inn, the father of my betrothed. They carried her off with another girl, and also fired the building.’

  ‘That is dire news,’ said Daylon. ‘But why come here? You should have gone to Esterly so the garrison could have been turned out and the girls rescued.’

  ‘We had no time. We chased them down and put them all but one to the sword. The girls were saved.’ He decided it was pointless to mention the damage done to Millie or his worry about Gwen.

  ‘Oh,’ said Baron Daylon. He looked at Declan and said, ‘You said hut one.’

  ‘I chose the youngest of the bandits and told him to spread the word wherever he goes that only harsh and swift justice awaits brigands in Beran’s Hill.’

  Daylon smiled. ‘That was very clever.’

  ‘We need a garrison now, my lord. The town is so large that even the lack of a constable is a problem. Most people are neighbourly, but we get so many travellers it is … difficult to maintain order at times. We are part of your barony, but …’ Declan struggled to put his thoughts into words, even though he had rehearsed this speech a dozen times while waiting.

  ‘You feel neglected,’ supplied Balven.

  Declan said, ‘Yes. We keep to the law, we pay our taxes, and we ask for little, but now we need your protection.’

  Daylon said, ‘It is difficult. I cannot simply build a new garrison, and yet …’ He paused to think, then said, ‘I can do this much. As it was clearly you who rescued the girls and led the men who took care of those bandits, I’m naming you as my constable in Beran’s Hill.’ He motioned to Balven. ‘Get me a purse of thirty gold pieces.’

  As Balven hurried off, Daylon said to Declan, ‘I’ll give you a stipend to raise a militia. Arm the men who lack weapons and see if you can convince them to train. Soldiers who sit around waiting for trouble are costly, but a group of willing townsmen who can be reinforced from Esterly should suffice until such time as I can afford to add another garrison. Are you willing?’

  As Balven returned with a purse of gold, Declan hesitated, then said, ‘I’ll see what I can do, my lord.’

  ‘Good,’ said Daylon. He motioned for Balven to give Declan the purse and then motioned that the interview was over.

  As they reached the door to the courtyard where Declan’s horse waited, Balven said, ‘Send word in a week’s time, and every month thereafter, to let me know how your militia progresses.’ In a friendly fashion he said, ‘The baron is a cautious man when it comes to expense – he’d rather make sure commerce flourishes and the people are fed than pay for soldiers to sit around – but I think you’re right. We will need a garrison in Beran’s Hill soon. I’ll keep that thought fresh in his mind. Now, thank you for bringing this to our attention. A report from Esterly on the matter should get here in a week or two. Good day to you.’

  He turned and walked away. Declan sighed. It was not the outcome he desired – he didn’t relish more responsibility – but it was better than simply being turned away. He glanced at the sun and realised he would have to spend the night in the city before starting north. He’d look for an inn, but first he’d seek out Gildy and discuss the need for a couple of good smiths, one for his forge and one for Baron Rodrigo. Then he had to hurry home, see to the inn’s repair, and start making swords for Copper Hills’ master-at-arms.

  Declan mounted and rode away from the castle.

  DAYLON LOOKED UP AS BALVEN entered the room. ‘That was unexpected,’ observed his body man.

  Balven sat down at the table and his brother poured him a flagon of wine. Sliding it across the table, Daylon said, ‘It might prove useful.’

  Balven took a long drink, then said, ‘This is a long first act, brother.’

  ‘Seventeen years. But I’ve had ample time to plan since finding that baby in my tent.’

  Balven said, ‘You’re playing a very dangerous game.’

  Daylon took a long pull of wine, then said, ‘I have … We have no choice. Centuries of tradition and order were overturned on the day we stood with those who betrayed Steveren Langene. Many would have joined me had I turned the next morning and launched an attack on Lodavico, but even had we won, every kingdom, every barony, would have been reduced to complete chaos. We would have entered an age of darkness and savagery. At least now we are almost ready. I have firm allies, all preparing for the coming confrontation. And I am preparing the field of battle, luring Lodavico to where I want him.’

  ‘Beran’s Hill?’

  Daylon nodded. ‘It’s too tempting a target. He will think he has gained the most important commercial junction in the northwest, not realising until too late that he’s trapped between three armies, with his only escape back the way he came through pillaged and barren lands.’ He sighed. ‘We are almost ready.’

  ‘Almost?’

  ‘Lodavico is sparring with some minor warlords and so-called barons across the straits in South Tembria. He thinks he’s going to win resources and perhaps loyal retainers, possibly enough to seize the Narrows, but we both know he’s simply wasting time.’

  Balven asked, ‘So when?’

  ‘Soon, compared to how long we’ve waited. A year or two, three at most. If Lodavico is not ready by then, we’ll lure him in.’

  Balven read every report that reached his half-brother, so he knew the plan as well as D
aylon, but he didn’t know what their next move was. After a minute of silence, he said, ‘And the boy?’

  Daylon laughed. ‘For years I’ve wondered how to lure Lodavico to Beran’s Hill at the right time. As the boy grew, I realised my best use for him was as bait. I loved his father and regret my part in his murder; I wish to protect his son, but I need to avenge Steveren.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Balven with a rueful expression. ‘You’ve made Beran’s Hill the most tempting target in your barony. Even if it is dangled in front of him, Lodavico might still linger elsewhere, but let word out that the Firemane child has been found there, and …’

  ‘Nothing could keep him away.’

  Balven hesitated.

  ‘What?’ asked Daylon.

  ‘You just sent our brother into that trap.’

  Daylon frowned. ‘A young man you’ve met twice is now our “brother”?’

  ‘You can’t deny his resemblance to our father.’

  ‘Of course I can, but I won’t. Still, knowing Father, you and I probably have another half a dozen brothers or sisters in cities across the two continents, maybe more. I don’t see your concern for them.’

  ‘I haven’t met them,’ answered Balven. ‘You must admit, that business with the mercenary band and how he dealt with them, that was very Father.’

  Daylon was silent for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes, that is exactly how Father would have dealt with the situation. He was never one to wait around for others to help him.’ Daylon again fell silent, then said, ‘Perhaps we can turn that knowledge to our advantage. If he is like our father then our brother may prove to be a useful agent in Beran’s Hill.’

  Balven said, ‘I’ve already instructed him to send us word of his progress. An occasional pat on the back and a bit of gold now and again for his expenses would go a long way to keeping up the appearance that Beran’s Hill is not a honey trap.’

  ‘Cultivate him,’ instructed Daylon.

  Balven nodded. ‘I’ll go see to household matters and then after supper I’ll instruct an agent to visit the smith in a week.’

  Daylon nodded his dismissal of his brother and sat back in his chair.

  There were still many unsettled matters to consider, not the least of which was the growing alliance between Lodavico and the Church of the One. That was a problem he had not anticipated when he sent the baby away for safekeeping. In less than twenty years the Church had gone from being a just cause for concern to a major threat.

  Daylon was moving the pieces into place as well as he could manage, and there was never a moment he thought his actions were without risk. Still, the prize was something his father could never have envisioned: Marquensas as the new Ithrace, the new centre of knowledge and beauty on Garn, and himself no longer a baron, but a king.

  And not for the first time in his life, Baron Daylon Dumarch wondered about that man he saw in the mirror.

  • CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT •

  Watching and Waiting

  Three figures huddled around a small table at the inn of a village on the south coast of Marquensas. Catharian, the false friar of the Order of Tathan, said, ‘No rumours, and no sighting of one with copper and gold hair, yet.’

  Denbe sat forward, interlacing the fingers of his large hands. To the slight figure next to him he said, ‘Anything?’

  Sabella said, ‘Only occasional flickers, but they come from the north. I fear he has somehow come to master his power, hiding it at will.’

  Catharian shook his head. ‘How is that possible? He has all of the Firemane power and no training.’

  Denbe sighed as if exhausted. ‘We wrestled with that question the night before we left. We can only speculate; perhaps his training under the Coaltachin gave him some means to keep the fires within under control. Or perhaps he is simply gifted, as the last of his line.’

  Denbe and Sabella had departed from the Hall of the Guardians the day after she detected the presence of the Firemane child. The Guardians had agents in key locations around the world, as did those of the other elemental orders. Elmish, as leader of the Flame Guard, and Denbe, as master of the Art, had debated how best to approach the problem of the rediscovered heir to the throne of Ithrace. Elmish had warned Denbe that if they had noticed the child’s existence, so might others.

  Catharian said, ‘Then tomorrow we start north and continue our search.’ He stood. ‘Now, I’m for bed. We need our rest. We must find the boy – young man, soon. We may be the only people in this world who seek him and do not want him dead.’

  • EPILOGUE •

  Return

  The old man sat on a tiny wooden stool before his small campfire as the sun vanished below the horizon. His pole was stuck in the sand a few yards away, and he waited for it to move, signalling a catch. Sunrise and sunset were traditionally his best chances to catch more than trash fish or sharks. He considered calling it a day and gathering up his pole and creel, returning home to his wife with his catch. Since his sons had taken over his boat years before, he’d spent most of his day doing as his wife bade him, or fishing beyond the surf.

  Just as he decided to pack up, Macomb the Fisher saw something rise up out of the ocean. He stood, his hand on his cleaning knife, the only thing he had that was remotely like a weapon.

  He stepped forward as the hunched form of a man arose out of the surf, his features hidden in the twilight as the western sunset lit him from behind. The man staggered in the water, and after a moment, Macomb judged he wasn’t a threat. The old fisherman put his knife in his belt and waded out into the knee-deep water to help him.

  ‘Come, warm yourself by the fire,’ he said, and led the man to where he could warm himself a little. The evening was still pleasant, but the fellow was dripping wet and it would turn cooler quickly now that the sun was down.

  In the light, Macomb could see he was a large young man and he was shivering. ‘If I had a blanket I’d give it to you,’ he said. ‘Get in close to the fire and I’ll stoke it up a bit.’ The stranger shuffled closer and almost fell to his knees.

  Macomb only had a few bits of kindling left, but he tossed them on, and as the flames quickly rose he could see that the youngster was regaining a bit of colour. He had brown hair and eyes, which now seemed to be coming back into focus, and he was perhaps not quite twenty years old. His cheeks were smooth and his body was clothed in a simple linen shirt and trousers, and otherwise he had no other belongings, no boots, jacket, hat, or pack. ‘How’d you end up in the sea, young man?’

  The man stared into the flames for a moment. Finally he spoke. ‘I was on a ship …’ he said, barely above a whisper.

  ‘Fell overboard?’ supplied the old fisherman.

  ‘I don’t know … I think so …’ He wiped water from his face and then brushed back his dripping hair. Looking back towards the sea, he said, ‘I must have … I remember something about a ship …’ He closed his eyes tightly, as if his head hurt. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Marquensas, near a village known as Calimar. My home is over there,’ Macomb said, pointing off to the east. ‘If you’re up to it, we can walk over and my missus will probably have some proper food you can share.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the stranger. He closed his eyes. ‘I must have hit my head. It hurts.’

  ‘Did you fall off a ship?’ Macomb repeated the question.

  ‘I don’t remember …’ He took a deep breath. ‘Marquensas?’

  ‘Where were you bound?’

  Again silence, then, ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Ah, a blow to the head can muddle your skull, that’s a fact.’ He offered his arm and said, ‘Let me help you.’

  The youngster took the old man’s arm as he stood up on unsteady legs.

  ‘What is your name, if you remember?’

  Accepting the old fisherman’s help, the stranger said, ‘My name is Donte.’

  Acknowledgements

  This book would not have been possible without the wisdom, kindness, editorial ability, and hand-h
olding of three terrific ladies.

  Thank you to Jane Johnson, Jennifer Brehl, and Emma Coode.

  I have been blessed far beyond good business relationships; I have been blessed with friends.

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