Half-dead and ravaged from bear claws and teeth, Mirwell had hunted down and killed the mother bear with nothing more than his own stubborn will and a dagger, just to prove he was not weak. He skinned her and ate of her raw heart, still warm and pulsating with blood. As he chewed, bear blood gushed in runnels down his beard and neck, and into his gaping wounds, blending with his own streaming blood. This, he thought, made their strength one.
Then, out of pity, he killed the mewling little cubs, too little to survive without their mother. Of the bear pelts, he made a mantle to wear on state occasions as a reminder to others of his strength.
Prince Amilton entered the chamber, glowering. His body-guards, simple Mirwellian guards, posted themselves outside the doorway. Not that he needed guards in the governor’s house, but he had become dependent on his two Weapons who usually never left his side, and now they were somewhere out in the great wide wilderness tracking the Greenie and leaving him, in his mind, vulnerable.
Regular militia made a poor substitute for one used to the fanatical, servile devotion exhibited by Weapons. Mirwell liked the idea of a more vulnerable Amilton. It made the prince more malleable.
Amilton was dressed in elegant silks with a purple scarf tied prettily around his collar—useless clothes more suited to impressing court butterflies than anything else. He did attract his share of female attention, but to what practical end?
The governor preferred a military look himself, and no one in his court, not even the ladies, wore such lavish fabrics or colors. Amilton looked a butterfly in House Mirwell.
Mirwell touched his brow and inclined his head, not deeply, but not insolently either. He was excused from a full formal bow because of his old hunting wounds.
“Wine, my prince?” he inquired.
Amilton waved a contemptuous hand at Mirwell and faced the fire. Mirwell poured him a gobletful anyway, and with great effort, limped over to the hearth to give it to him. Amilton took it wordlessly—and poured the contents on the floor.
Mirwell watched unblinking. “How may I serve you, my prince?”
Amilton turned on him, his expression haughty. His face was narrower, more sharp and severe than his brother’s, but he had the brown, almond-shaped eyes that characterized Clan Hillander.
“You shall not serve me the bottled urine you call wine.”
“I beg forgiveness, Liege. Rhovan is difficult to come by, and we save it for more . . . extravagant occasions.” It was no wonder the late king had chosen Zachary to rule—Amilton was a spoiled fop.
“You seem reluctant,” Amilton said, “to update me in the affairs concerning my brother.”
“Missives from Captain Immerez are few. He is hard on the road to ensure our plans go forward without mishap. You know as much about his progress as I do.”
“It seems I could have sent my own assassins months ago and have had done with it.”
“Of course we’ve tried that avenue to no avail—it lacked finesse. The assassins were promptly thwarted.”
“Yes, because you’ve permitted spies into your house who learned your plans. And my brother knows where I am.”
“If your brother knew the source of those assassins, don’t you think his Weapons would be upon us now? And why should he care where you are, so long as it is far away from Sacor City? My liege, we only suspect there is a spy in House Mirwell.”
“I believe my brother was suspicious enough of those last attempts to put a spy here. How do you know our next attempt won’t fail?”
“Every precaution is being taken, Liege. You must trust me in this.”
“I sincerely hope you don’t fail this time, Tomas.” Amilton left his goblet on the mantel and moved restlessly about the chamber. He paused by the open window which looked over the training fields of the provincial militia, and allowed the implied threat to hang in the air before he spoke again. “And you trust this Gray One?”
“Explicitly. He is of the old powers, and his alliance will bring such influence and glory to us that we can’t even begin to imagine it.”
Amilton leaned against the windowsill, arms crossed, his trim, angular figure silhouetted against blue sky. “I don’t particularly care for his ways. The groundmites, you know. But the Gray One’s forces ought to convince the other governors and nobles to ally with me.”
“His forces are great enough to take a province at a time, if necessary,” Mirwell said. “And he has offered you powers?”
“Not precisely. I fear he may betray us and offer them to my brother first.”
“It would be easiest for the Gray One, in his own self-interest to do so.”
“I agree.”
“Let us not fret,” Mirwell said. “He’ll have trouble convincing your brother that the D’Yer Wall should be crushed. Zachary is far too scrupulous.”
“And I’m not?” Not even a trace of a smile could be found on Amilton’s lips.
Wisely, Mirwell didn’t respond. He was growing used to Amilton’s little tirades.
“My father took what was mine by right of succession, and gave it to my brother. Do you know the humiliation I experienced when he was pronounced heir? I wanted to gut him right there in the throne room; right there in front of my father and his counselors, and those smirking lord-governors and clan chiefs. He was always favored in Father’s eyes. He always exceeded me in his studies, he excelled in hunting and riding. He revived the old Hillander terrier breed, and his kennel is the envy of the country.”
“He sounds very impressive,” Mirwell said. “But a man cannot be judged by his kennels.”
Now Amilton did smile, but it was fleeting.“If I’d the sense, I’d have seen to my father’s death before he had a chance to announce an heir. I’d be king now, and I would have the control over my brother’s life, instead of he over mine. Then we would see who the exiled one was!”
Mirwell gazed down at his Intrigue board. Little had changed on it since Immerez last reported. He picked up the red king, its enamel paint chipped and scratched, and rotated it in his fingers.
“Hindsight, my prince, will not change the future. There is no use dwelling in it. Your brother does lack certain qualities which are in your favor.”
“Such as?”
“Such as ambition. You and I share that particular quality, and it is always the downfall of one who is as scrupulous as your brother. We will make Sacoridia great, you and I.” He set the red king on the fringes of the green king’s realm.
Ambition was a healthy attribute for a man in his waning years. It kept him thinking young, and prepared his clan for the ages to come. Once Amilton ascended the throne,Adolind and L’Petrie Provinces—the poorest and richest provinces in Sacoridia—would be incorporated into his own. Adolind because it bordered him to the north, and it contained millions of acres of virgin timber—enough to feed paper mills and shipyards for the next few centuries; and L’Petrie for its harbors, fishing fleet, and prosperous trade city—Corsa. It was also on the southeast corner of his border.
There would be little resistance, if any. Both provinces had militia that were laughable at best. And if there was a problem? The Gray One and King Amilton would back him up with their forces.
“You will prevail, my prince,” Mirwell said. “You will prevail.”
That is, he thought, if Immerez stops that Greenie in time.
STEVIC G’LADHEON
Stevic G’ladheon caught wind of a bad omen as he rode his sorrel stallion through the gates of Selium. An undertaker’s cart stood pulled to the side of the street. The ancient nag harnessed to it dozed in the sun oblivious to the flies that swarmed around her tearing eyes, and that which lay beneath the blanket in the cart.
The undertaker, an old man with a stubble beard, leaned against the cart on his forearms. His worn clothing, hole-ridden trousers, and a frayed waistcoat held together by patches, were smeared with mud and dirt as if he had just returned from grave digging. Stevic G’ladheon, whose own clothing was of the richest fabrics and f
inest make, wrinkled his nose.
A woman in green joined the old man. Her hair, like new copper, was bound in a single braid down her back. A winged horse was embroidered in gold on the left sleeve of her shortcoat, and a saber girded at her side.
“I can smell what’s in that cart from here.”
Stevic smiled grimly at his cargo master, Sevano, who rode next to him on a gray mare. “It’s not what I think of when I think of Selium,” Stevic said. “I’m surprised they let that undertaker through the gates.”
As they rode past the cart, the woman lifted the blanket. She clapped her hand over her mouth and nose. Whether she was shocked to see the corpse of someone she knew, or was reacting to the stench of decay, he couldn’t tell.
“Found ’im on the side of the road,” the undertaker said in a gruff voice. “Had to have been there a while, I reckon. Woulda left ’im there, but I’m not that way. Some fellas would let a corpse rot in the open if someone weren’t there to pay for a proper burial. I can give you a real decent deal on a pine box if you’re inclined.”
“Was there any sign of a horse nearby?” was the surprising response.
“Nothin’ but my old cob here within miles, Cap’n. Now how ’bout that box?”
The woman dropped the blanket and grabbed him by his lapels. His eyes bulged and his arms dangled helplessly at his sides as she shook him. “Did you see anything lying near the body?” she demanded. “A satchel of any kind? Tack?”
“N-no! Nothing . . .”
Stevic and the cargo master hurried past the unpleasant scene at a trot. After a while, Stevic pulled on the reins and looked back. The undertaker had disappeared, and the woman held two arrows at eye level. A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth.
Sevano followed Stevic’s gaze. “Green Rider,” he muttered. “Always like a raven before the storm, bearing ill news wherever one turns up.”
It sometimes seemed true that the king’s messengers bore only bad news: from strife, illness, and death to new taxes. Some likened crossing the path of a Green Rider to meeting disaster. Stevic knew otherwise. Years ago, a Green Rider had brought news of Queen Isen’s approval for the chartering of Clan G’ladheon. The Rider had stayed on to witness the confirmation ceremony, and turned out to be a jolly entertainer during the reception that followed.
Stevic and Sevano rode through the late afternoon bustle of Selium. Crafters hawked their wares in stalls, and tourists milled around street musicians who played ballads for coppers. Steam rose from vents in the roofs of bathhouses. Despite the outrageous rates chalked outside on slates, long lines formed outside, and business was thriving. If not for the hot springs, commerce in the city would be considerably slower.
Students, in their indigo, green, maroon, gold, and brown uniforms, created a motley scene as they wove in and out of the crowds, or sat on the front steps of the art museum. Some shared notes and gossip while others sketched. Some played involved games of Intrigue as pigeons cooed and stalked the steps in search of handouts.
The old longing swelled within Stevic’s chest as he took in the scene—a wistful longing to be a student here, himself. He hadn’t the wealth when a youth to study at Selium. Indeed, his family had dragged what meager living they could out of the sea. At a young age he could master a sloop and haul weighted nets alongside his brother and sisters. As he spent a portion of each day gutting or scaling fish to be dried, he dreamed—oh, how he dreamed—of the Golden Guardian searching in his poor village for hidden talent, and finding it within him.
Alas, it remained a dream, for the Golden Guardian had never come to his obscure village. Stevic saw the life of a fisherman as the bleakest possible future, and no longer able to endure the stink of dead fish and their scales clinging to his skin, he ran away.
Instead of a refined education immersed in the arts and history, he was educated through life experience in the employ of various merchants. He learned to read and tally figures—his first employer had seen to that—and traveled to places he could never have imagined, but he missed a classical education.
In the midst of the conviviality of Selium’s main thoroughfare, and absorbed by his own regrets, he almost forgot the unpleasant summons that had brought him here. The charges against Karigan were preposterous, of course, and he planned to straighten it all out with Dean Geyer. If nothing else, currency would convince the dean of his mistake.
Pink apple blossoms drifted into the street, filling the air with a far sweeter fragrance than the corpse down by the gates. Stevic had traveled lightly, though tempted to bring along a caravan of goods now that the spring trading season had opened and people were in the mood to buy. However, his daughter’s plight was more important, and he made what speed he could, bringing along Sevano, who was talented with a sword despite his age, and welcome company. Up the Grandgent River they had sailed from Corsa, on one of Stevic’s own cargo barges. They had left it unburdened of goods for speed. From the river, it was a two-day ride to Selium.
Stevic sent Sevano to arrange for rooms at the Harp and Drum, where he stayed whenever he was in town. The inn was clean and tapped into the city’s famous hot springs. Each evening, students performed in the common room. The inn provided an opportunity for aspiring minstrels to practice their craft in a real situation, and to earn coppers and silvers for tuition at the same time.
Stevic had hoped Karigan would take a liking to music making, but it appeared she hadn’t the aptitude for it. Exactly what she had an aptitude for remained a mystery, though Dean Geyer hinted in his letter that it was for nothing but trouble. Stevic had crushed the letter in his fist and thrown it into the fire. His daughter was headstrong, but she was also intelligent. One just had to know how to direct her energies.
The closer Stevic got to campus, the quieter the street became, as the mercantiles, inns, bathhouses, craft booths, and tourists fell behind. Grand houses now huddled close together on both sides of the street. They were old and similar in style to the academic buildings with pretentious columns supporting overhanging roofs of red clay tile. Sharp angles and corners cast stark shadows against pale walls. Scenes carved in relief ornamented entryways. Over one door, the god and goddess glowed in the sunlight. Narrow, tall windows remained darkened by shadows like empty eye sockets.
Though the houses were similar in style to the academic buildings, the academic buildings were even older. The city had grown up around the school, and the name Selium was interchangeable between the two.
Stevic rode beneath the P’ehdrosian Arch which marked the entrance to campus. He admired the scroll work and detail carved into its marble facade. On the keystone was a half-man, half-moose creature blowing on a horn. His features were scrubbed away by hundreds of years of harsh winters, and his body, like the rest of the arch, was splotched with lichens.
Was the p’ehdrose a mythological species, or a lost race? It was like asking if the god Aeryc rode the crescent moon in the evening. He couldn’t see it happen, therefore he could not know in truth. Once he had thought Selium contained the answers to all such questions, but time and maturity had taught him the answers were all open to interpretation. If he believed the p’ehdrose existed, did it make it so?
His fingers dragged along the inscription inside the arch as he rode beneath. He couldn’t read the ancient Sacoridian script, but he remembered that the words roughly meant that knowledge brought peace. In fact, the school had risen from the ashes and death of the Long War with the optimistic goal of ending all war with knowledge. A lofty ideal? Not really, considering Sacoridia had been a relatively peaceful nation for hundreds of years. Other countries, once members of the League that had crushed down the dark forces of Mornhavon the Black, were less peaceful than Sacoridia, but still sent children to be educated here. A sign of hope for future generations not to be discounted.
At the school’s stables, Stevic handed the reins over to a boy and tossed him a copper.
“Thank you, my lord,” the boy said in astonishment. Evi
dently tips were uncommon.
“I am no lord, boy. Remember that.”
“Y-yes, my . . .Yes, sir!”
Stevic strode toward the administration building, with its golden dome and marble colonnade, his royal blue cloak flowing behind him. Well over six feet tall, he was an imposing man with a set chin and wide shoulders. Brown hair, flecked with silver, hung long and loose.
Despite his rich silks and the presumed leisure which accompanied wealth, he wasn’t in any way soft. His body, for all its height, was hard and compact from years of hoisting cargo. Most merchants of his status sat in their offices counting their currency, but Stevic was different. He would not make his men and women do what he himself could not do. It wasn’t uncommon to see him on the docks, sleeves rolled up, throwing heavy kegs up to a cog’s crew.
It also wasn’t uncommon for him to be called a lord, for his bearing and composure, his self-confidence and commanding presence, were those of a nobleman. He would have none of it. He was proud of his simple roots, proud of the hard work that had attained the success he now enjoyed. He scorned royalty on the most part, and he was heard to mutter, more than once, that royals didn’t have the sense of a horse’s ass.
A gold ring flashed on Stevic’s finger as he entered the dim administration building. It bore the clan emblem, the twin of the one his beloved Kariny had once worn. Upon her death it had been passed on to Karigan. Whenever he looked at his daughter, he saw Kariny. Her high forehead and bright eyes . . . Karigan had not inherited her quiet ways, however, but her father’s own temper.
Stevic’s footfalls echoed loudly in the lobby. It was a domed rotunda with a veined marble floor. Bronze statues and busts of past administrators, stern and staid scholars, and severe looking craft masters, frowned at him from their alcoves. Offices branched off in either direction in rows of oak doors.
A bald-pated clerk sat at a desk, crouched over a sheaf of papers. Stevic stood before him some moments before the clerk acknowledged his presence with a sniff and nasal, “Yes?”