“Where is Captain Ark-robin? Where are his riders?”
“Ark-robin will stay to secure Abascar’s perimeter and to make sure no beastmen have made it into the tunnels. If they have, they could run from the dig all the way to the Underkeep. It’s up to you to recover the dig and the tower. Move now, Cal-raven, and we shall salvage what we can. Tabor Jan is preparing riders for you. You’ll find your armor ready with your vawn.”
Cal-raven nodded. There was a pang in his head, a thought he had been carrying and then suddenly lost. “Father.”
The king smiled, leaned close to him, and said intently, “This could be important Cal-raven. Think of what it could mean. Remember how I cleansed the woods of those barbarians years ago. That story is told again and again. It made me beloved in the minds of the people. It made them eager to crown me king.”
The people are ready for me, Cal-raven almost said aloud. Only you lack faith in my abilities. Instead, he closed his eyes and said, “I must consider the matter at hand, not any future glory.”
“I will arrange an enthusiastic reception for you upon your return. Old Har-baron did the same for me once. There is no better time to address the people, to be generous to them, than in a moment of victory. You could make a prince’s proclamation. Commission a monument celebrating the victory. Or call for a commemorative day of rest. Whatever you wish. I will make sure your Promised is there.”
There was an unfamiliar tone in his father’s voice, a sort of hysteria, an unraveling. “You are writing the end of a story that has not yet been told, Father.”
Cal-raven walked alone toward the stables while he listened to his father address the gathering observers. Looking up at the tower, at the library windows, he knew suddenly what he could hear in his father’s voice. Cal-marcus was inviting the people to see this as the end of his kingship. He wanted to surrender. He could bear his burdens no longer. And here the stage was being set for Cal-raven to establish himself and make the people forget their grudges.
After a few isolated cheers of support, the Housefolk scrambled to the main avenue, hoping to be the first to describe the bloody news to friends and family. A great lament began—cries and unanswerable questions from those who knew people at the site of the dig.
The king was catching up to him now, flanked by Aug-anstern and Irimus Rain and followed by his guards and twelve armored warriors carrying spears and shields. Sunlight flashed off polished breastplates and helmets.
Cal-raven walked through the high wooden gates of the royal stables and pushed through thick and musty air—the dank smell of the vawns’ grub-sludge, the earthy scent of fresh hay, the heavy, dark aroma of animal dung.
Tabor Jan waited by the vawn troughs looking like a hound anxious to be released. He presented Cal-raven with armor and weapons. “I’ll plant a hundred arrows in those beasts if you will ride behind me and chop off their heads,” he said.
With that, the guardsman planted a boot in the stirrup and climbed astride the scaly back of his great green vawn. He grabbed the thick black hair and reached forward to scratch it behind its ears. The vawn squealed through its nostrils and ground the teeth within its snout. “Easy, Jetaka,” said the rider to his mount. “We’ll be running soon.”
“You’re a musician with your bow, Tabor Jan,” said Cal-raven. “Let it sing.”
“And you’re a soldier, not a poet. Get on that vawn.”
He accepted the flag from a stablehand, a warning banner that would declare the urgency of their mission, a signal to merchants and other passersby not to detain or follow them. It was also an invitation for passing patrols to join the charge.
His black vawn stamped its gigantic feet. Pacing in small circles, it lashed its scaly tail.
The king stilled the vawn with a whistle. “Time is short. You must surprise the beastmen.” He lifted the polished helm up to the rider.
“We will slaughter them. And upon my return, I will do as you suggest. I will make a proclamation.” He pulled the helm down over his head.
“Indeed? Good. Very good. Assert yourself as a leader and a man of vision. Best to ride into battle with eyes fixed firmly on the days that lie ahead.” Cal-marcus reached up to tighten the buckles of the vawn saddle and playfully punched Cal-raven’s shin, like a father celebrating a small boy’s first ride. “And what shape shall your proclamation take, my visionary boy?”
Cal-raven lifted the visor of his helm, reached down, and caught his father by the forearm. “I will call for the pardon of Auralia.”
The king broke his son’s hold. He seemed to lose his balance for a moment. “Will you?” he replied coldly. The joy in his face had cracked like a broken mask, revealing the furious wraith Cal-raven had seen in the library several nights earlier.
Tabor Jan cleared his throat. “I’ll just…I’ll let the two of you finish your farewells. And take the troop to the gate.”
“I will call for Auralia’s pardon and propose that we name her Abascar’s Lady of Colors,” Cal-raven continued without flinching. “I would have Auralia oversee the advent of Abascar’s Spring on the day I inherit the throne. Unless, of course, you still intend to declare these things within your own reign, an event I would be the first to celebrate.”
“Your impudence would extend so far!” It was Aug-anstern, tiptoeing warily across the hay-strewn floor. He stepped boldly to the king’ shoulder and hovered there. “Upon taking the crown, your defining gesture would be to defy your father and cast down his legacy?”
“Not to defy him, you old vulture. But to give him an honorable escape from a trouble of his own making. It’s either that or wait for the grudgers to rise. In this, the king can revive the people’s pride and grant them what is rightfully theirs.”
“And what does Abascar have to grant them?” laughed Aug-anstern. “Nothing, I say.”
“You’re wrong. We can restore the freedoms we’ve taken away.” The prince prodded his vawn forward toward the advisor, bringing the animal’s seething snout up to nudge the man’s chest. “And we can begin by granting Auralia her proper reward.”
“How shall I find peace, Cal-raven,” Cal-marcus hissed bitterly, “knowing your words here will spread like a contagion? Would you write into history that you stood up and saved House Abascar from your father’s cruel judgment, you arrogant son of a Gatherer?”
There was no time to resolve this conversation. Cal-raven sensed, with rising panic, that he had somehow put Auralia in greater danger. “You accuse me of lack of love for you? Even as I ride at your command to defend you? Do you wish me to stumble in my charge?” He could hear his old teacher’s reprimand echoing from their trouble at the dig. Not here. Not in front of the people. There were too many witnesses. “Grant me this,” he said, leaning down to whisper, “that I can dismiss my mother’s ghost and let her rest at last. Let Abascar have something more to celebrate than the carcasses of beastmen!”
The silence, the unflinching hatred on the advisor’s face was enough to tell Cal-raven that, no matter how strong this appeal, the king would be quickly overwhelmed by relentless pleas to the contrary.
King Cal-marcus’s face purpled as though he were sick.
“Showing such favor to this prisoner,” the king hissed, “you risk offending your Promised.”
“Then perhaps we should postpone the wedding until these matters are resolved.”
With that, he turned his vawn and fell in behind the departing troop. Fearing what he would see on his father’s face, knowing such images should not haunt the mind of a soldier heading into battle, he did not look back. Reconciliation would have to wait.
And yet his father’s fury did haunt him like a fever as he rode, and it was all he could do to turn the fires of anger and fear into fuel for the blows he would strike against the enemy.
Just inside the main gate, the king acknowledged another wave of cheers. His people would assume he was outraged by the attack. They would take comfort in his rage. They would not understand what had b
rought his temper to a boil.
Wilfry bounded down the lane to throw himself at the king’s shins with a volley of affectionate yips. Cal-marcus kicked him away.
“If the prince’s first appeal was bold,” Aug-anstern muttered in King Cal-marcus’s ear, “that last one borders on treason.”
“Treason, Aug-anstern?” Cal-marcus bowed his head. He looked at the black gloves Cal-raven had given him in exchange for the riding gloves. They were gloves for rangers and trackers. He slipped his own hands inside. They were still warm. He had not worn gloves like these in many years, since before Jaralaine fled the house. “It was reason that I heard.”
His heartbeat stumbled out of step, and he clutched at his chest, staggering forward. Irimus Rain, who had snatched the complaining dog back from the king’s boots, pushed Aug-anstern aside and stepped in to offer Cal-marcus his arm. The king steadied himself, his heartbeat stable again, and fought to recover his dignity while Irimus brushed stable dust from his cape.
“You are the king of Abascar, son of Har-baron,” Irimus said. “Your tale is not finished, however impetuous your son has become.” He smiled kindly through his silver beard. “Were we not so audacious ourselves, you and I, when we routed the barbarians, when we made the Cragavar forest safe? My, how times return to the same refrain.”
“I should never have told Cal-raven about that meddlesome girl.” Cal-marcus tightened his fists. “Too young for prison. Wild and brave. Beautiful. I should have known he would get curious. He saw her, you know. It is my fault, and it must not happen again.”
“May I suggest some quiet and some counsel?” Irimus handed the wriggling white dog to the king, clearly hoping the animal’s affections would ease his temper. “Let us retreat to the library.”
Cradling Wilfry in the crook of his arm, Cal-marcus turned his attention to what had once been the queen’s tower. “Not again. This Gatherer girl will not cloud my son’s vision the way Jaralaine clouded mine.”
The rumble of the charge faded in the distance as the king raised a hand to decline the royal litter. He would not be carried. He would walk the long path back to his chambers. He would kindle a fire. He would call for his drink. He would wrap himself in the fireglow and find himself a space to think.
Startled and gossiping Housefolk gathered at every corner, watching the king, his advisors, and his guards. Stablecleaners shuffled in the streets, swinging brooms to rid the road of refuse and vawn tracks. Somewhere a woman wailed in despair. Bad news could spread like wildfire in Abascar.
Mustering what dignity he could, Cal-marcus ran his gloved hand across his forehead as if to smooth the furrows carved by regret. When Wilfry licked his face, he grimaced and passed the dog to Aug-anstern. “I’m in no mood for his maniacal affection,” he said, “and I’m likely to smash him if he gets in my way again. Take him away, and stuff him somewhere I can’t hear his—”
He stopped so suddenly that Aug-anstern proceeded several paces past him.
“Of course,” he said to himself.
And then he turned abruptly, informed his entourage that he wished to visit the dungeons. And he quickened his pace to outrun any second thoughts.
He would pardon Auralia. That would please his son.
He would take the cloak she had made, to show that he appreciated her gift. That, too, would please his son.
And he would explain that Auralia had asked for an escort to take her to an undisclosed location, her secret home. Captain Ark-robin would choose riders who could carry her far into the north, to a place where she would be lost. Surely she would never find her way back and never be found.
The problem would be removed from the house. Scharr ben Fray would not have a chance to rescue his meddling agent. And best of all—Cal-raven would never see Auralia again.
21
A THIEF IN THE UNDERKEEP
I n the moment that Radegan the Fox saw Captain Ark-robin turn toward him, the thief had the advantage of surprise. He knew it, and he used it.
Abascar’s stone foundations were a complicated maze. Housefolk were forbidden from access to maps revealing its intricate secrets. Even the Underkeep’s busy, burrowing laborers were given specific circuits and were arrested if they strayed. Only the king and his closest advisors had complete diagrams of its passages and dens. Radegan knew obtaining such sketches was as dangerous a gamble as stealing the Underkeep’s guarded treasures.
Thus, when his guesswork led him not only to the richest pickings of his career but also to an occasion for vengeance, he felt as though he had fallen into a fantastic joke. How in the vast anatomy of the king’s underground fortress could he have become such a champion of chance?
He reached to the hilt of the weapon he had stolen. He stepped forward and laughed, triumphant. Recognition—the first paralyzing blow—stunned the king’s chief strategist.
It was over in a few frantic moments.
For hundreds of years House Abascar rested on a great stone plateau, looking out in all directions at the rich woods, hills, and rivers of the Expanse. At first the Underkeep was merely a subterranean treasure room, a burrow for the king’s secrets.
House Abascar’s wealth had grown when Prince Cal-raven’s grandfather Har-baron broke deeper ground to mine valuable elements in the stone and clay of the palace’s foundation. By the reign of King Cal-marcus, the labyrinth had spread outward, honeycombing the plateau. Tunnels spread deep beneath the homes of the Housefolk. At major crossroads on the surface, guards monitored Underkeep stations, accepting wares and harvests and sending them down on ropes and pulleys to those who would sort, distribute, and prepare them for their best use. Each passageway below had its guard and its purpose.
Any ambitious burglar hoping to steal from the king’s hoard would have thought to find a way into the Underkeep by way of one of these stations. Crossroad stations were heavily guarded, but some thieves managed to smuggle themselves down in the crates of contribution. A few smaller shafts opened within privileged officers’ homes, allowing them easy access, and if a thief could enter those quarters unobserved, he might manage a clever descent.
Radegan’s plan, however, depended on penetrating the highly guarded hoard of Housefolk treasures directly beneath the palace. Even though his most famous thefts had convinced the people he could pass through walls, he had never dared venture within the palace boundary; he could never have hoped to reach those well-secured Underkeep stations.
But the summoner who fancied him happened to serve a regular shift guarding one of those stations. When Radegan promised to hand over a secret hoard of Auralia’s inventions, he persuaded her to take a sizable gamble. Out in the forest, she bundled him into a harvest bag and carried him in on the back of her vawn.
Inside the dark Underkeep station—a wooden silo with a rope-and-pulley apparatus rigged within its high, conical ceiling—she lectured him on how long she would wait while he went on his looting spree.
“I will not defend you if you are caught,” she insisted. “I will point to evidence revealing that Gatherers smuggled you in on a harvest cart. And you will not be the only one who suffers.”
He smiled at her best attempts to appear stern. He knew she could not resist him, and even in the thin lines of sunlight, he could see the rapid pulse along her neck, the flutter in her eyelids. “And who would you sentence to unjust punishments on my account?” he asked.
“I have not been idle during the days since we made our deal,” she said. “There’s a certain Gatherer woman, married, one with long black curls…”
“You would not meddle with that poor girl,” he scoffed. “Merya’s a mess.”
“Oh yes, I would. You think you can win my trust while you’re romancing other women in the wilderness?”
“I have to play certain games to stay a step ahead of fools,” he laughed. “When I get to Bel Amica, I’ll establish a place there where you and I can revel and relax. I’ll come for you within the next six seasons if my strategy plays out. And Aba
scar will never see you again.”
“You’ll know I trust you when I tell you my name.” She kissed him then, taking off her officer’s helm and tossing it aside, running her fingers through his ragged hair and pressing him back against the pulley crank so that the chains clattered and the ropes swayed. “Now,” she said, breathless, “where did you hide Auralia’s inventions?”
He detailed a path to the stash of marrowwood and explained how many steps to walk south, how many birch trees to count, and where to find the boulder that emerged from the ground like the prow of a sinking boat. “At the base of the stone is a cross thatch of evergreen. You’ll find Auralia’s bounty beneath it. Then you’ll trust me.”
He watched her turn the heavy crank, and the platform on which he stood descended. He sank into the musty air of the Underkeep. And he called into the bright, shrinking rectangle, “Farewell, Brynna.”
Her head appeared in the light, stark as the pupil in the white of an eye staring down at him. He caught the curse she dropped and laughed quietly, satisfied.
He arrived in a storeroom fragrant with new-mown hay, buckets of apples and globefruit, piles of rocknuts, twinseed, and berries.
A pink, hairless cavecat with enormous ears stared at him. The animal’s eyes were so wide, round, and white they looked ready to drop from their sockets. Then it crouched, shoved its head beneath a harvest cart, and slunk out of sight.
Just across the adjoining corridor, a curtained closet of military woods-cloaks, waiting for soldiers and duty officers to suit up for patrol.
“Captain Ark-robin,” he muttered, drawing back the curtain, “the Fox has slipped its trap and is back in the chicken pen.”
He would survive here only in the guise of a soldier and only if he appeared to know where he was going. Somewhere he would have to overcome a patrolling guard. This was risky enough to give him pause…pause to determine a variety of ways to noiselessly end the guard’s life.