"I promise you. With solemnity. Hold not fear for me Neschera. I endure. I will endure. I will never cast down the gift you gave me. Not while in my right mind."
Tomorrow I greet the Dawn, knowing that the gods do not abandon us.
But now, I pray.
Listen to the words I will say. They are from my heart. Just like you. The difference is I am proud of them.
The Broken God helps all who hurt, no matter who they are. He takes all pains, feels all wounds. Every time a poor soul weeps with grief, cries out in pain, or clutches an empty belly in hunger, he feels it.
Imagine that burden, millions of souls, with so many of them wicked by necessity and by design, hurting each other, harming each other; and he feels it all.
Who knows better than him the cruel face of the world? His servants are not blind to it either. We do not act as we do because we expect an easy path; we do it because it is right.
When the Adorned suffer in his name, with his words on their lips, giving themselves over to another, giving themselves to his service, they take on some of that pain from him. They become closer to him, they learn a little of how he Endures; they reach for his divinity and in so doing, he can work great things through them.
To offer up the self to such suffering with purpose is holy. For it is holy to suffer for others; and in spiritual terms, such is what the most fervent prayers to the Broken God entail.
So rise the Saints; so some tales say did Dornavver gain its power. There we see the power of the Lord on the Rack's conviction; and that of his servants.
Gifts freely offered are those with the most weight.
But there must be purpose.
To seek to suffer without a pure intent; out of guilt, perhaps, out of a misplaced sense of justice, a dark sense of loss. Then it is not a thing that honours the Broken God.
It is, perhaps, a step towards the lash of the Maiden of Pain; she who sets fetters even as the Crying God breaks them.
Two sides of the same coin, yes. Intent is what marks the difference.
I wonder still if Neraline wavered, in truth; before her crimes. She could have left me for dead once. Instead I drew breath once more in Soubar, safe. The intentions, then, of her dance of words beforehand? Were they failure?
That would be irony, would it not, beast? That would be a thing you could not explain!
I remember my witch's tears of rage and despair, high up in the mountains; before ever I admitted my love for her. She named the penance I wore a wicked, pointless thing; suffering for its own sake. She was right, it was a denial of what I had become and a failing in faith, an anger turned within at what I once was.
It was not holy. It was not for others, it was for me. An easier path than actually bearing my burdens. An easier path than truly being shrived of sin.
She named that suffering vile; but she names true prayers to my god the same.
I must help her see the difference.
I must help her see beyond that difference, for her love for me should not drive her to feel such pain. She should not see my god as loving me any less.
For with her and him, I live now. As a man that I can respect.
I have barely had time to stop and think in the last two tendays; I thought I had my fill of such in Beregost, but I find a lack of quiet respite is adverse to pure judgement.
I will take these moments and pour forth some selfish introspection. Let me cement the truth of it.
I remember Brother Alavar in Athkatla teasing me that I treated our faith as a war, such was my earnest Tethyrian passion; I do, I think, see it as such and I am not alone. Even the sardonic Brother himself, with his chiding tongue; with his wry patience; even he had that burning passion that drives the Adorned on even when times are at their bleakest. Its a strange allegory, perhaps, for a faith half filled with soft spoken pacifists who endure all blows sent against them. Yet those who understand the fire in the eyes of the Adorned, their unwillingness to yield when they do their duty, may not think so.
It is war, then, when the Ilmateri gather to combat a foul plague; sowing death and fear. It is not the glorious face of battle, no. But it is the discipline of quiet preparation, planning, the husbanding of resources, the endurance of hardship; yes it is that. We fought a war against the plague, alongside the other priests of this city and those who contributed to their efforts - indeed made them possible. A whole host of unlikely benefactors. And despite the devastation we won. We hunted the enemy and destroyed it. Many people live now who otherwise would have withered and died.
And it is a war we fight now, again without the glory of battle; one that calls for patience, resolve, humility and perhaps more skill with numbers than I possess. A war to fill empty bellies, rebuild lives shattered by plague and rekindle the fires of hope in a city which has suffered so much. It will not be a swift task; but we will endure in our duty. I will endure in my duty. I know it now.
I remember when the first signs of plague began to be noticed. I felt a sense of creeping dread in me, filling me with memories of the plague in Athkatla. I remembered the suffering. I remembered the loss of hope. I remember the fear. And it was all coming back. I had felt so powerless back then, in Athkatla. I felt so angry that I could not do more. My emotion made me waver in my resolve, forgetting my duty. It took words of counsel to lift my spirits and keep me on course.
This time, when the plague struck Baldur's Gate, the lash of suffering was sharper, deeper. All that I feared came to pass. One could taste the miasma of despair that hung over the city. I felt it all around, and saw it in the eyes of those we saved and frozen in the faces of those we could not.
This time I did not need words of comfort. This time I was speaking them, instead.
_____________________
Change is not an easy thing to understand. I read these tales of my life in Tethyr, the life of another man. I remember all he thought and felt, I remember why he did what he did; in fact I think I understand that better than he ever did.
Know a man by his actions, and I am not that man anymore.
Know a man by his flaws, even if such are chained, and I am still that man.
Know a man by his virtues, the talents he possess, and I am still that man.
Know a man by what he aspires to, his hopes, and I am not that man anymore.
Know a man by what he values, what he treasures, and I am not that man anymore.
What has changed?
I abandoned oaths of duty to family, father and liege lord; and through them to an unjust King.
Yet the cost of that was abandoning oaths to my people.
I gave oaths to the Broken God; and through him to all those who suffer.
I set aside the tool of death, the Sword.
I submerged myself in faith, the breath of life stilling.
I studied Ilmater's teachings and absorbed his wisdom.
I healed others.
I played a part; denying my flaws, not conquering them.
Then, I grieved for what I had left behind and I reached for the sword again, intent impure.
I came to see how my guilt was a wound, and a barrier to true faith. So I sought to act; not languish in self loathing.
I felt the pains of birth as I filled my lungs with breath once more. Taking wavering steps as a priest, mortal, flawed. Crying out for companionship, for life.
I did his work. His work. But I made mistakes, and harmed one I meant to heal with my own selfishness.
So I tried again.
And again.
And again.
And duty was done.
I grew to understand the nature of past sins. The way power moulds souls; that suffering is a form of chain, that my Lord frees others; so I began to sing of this.
I spoke words of comradeship to others, looking upon equals, not servants, and not masters granting me atonement.
And I made mistakes, and harmed one dear. I watched her fall.
So I resolved to undo this.
And to undo this, I have had to look into my flaws and set them aside.
I have had to affirm what I value to myself. To that man of Tethyr.
And in doing this, doubt falls away.
In doing this, my purpose becomes clear.
In doing this, I win myself a fiery heart, which burns for me; in whose warmth the chill of despair cannot find pruchase.
I used to scour the city looking for refugees from the war in Tethyr; seeking to offer my aid. Seeking to hear news from home. Seeking to sate that empty feeling I had, that missing piece of me that was the world I left behind.
I remember one of the first conversations I had with Telia was happening upon her in the Helm and Cloak, while asking around for Tethyrians. She was polite, helpful even; people often were, if they gave me any time. Perhaps a folorn priest evoked their pity. I am not sure she remembers our talk, I do not think I struck her as she struck me, at first.
I heard many stories of tragedy but never found out what I sought. It seemed all was chaos and death, still. At least, until the traitor Beric, or Mael I should call him, spoke lies of being from my homeland; and related the passing of my family and my ancestral home. Truth or not? I do not know. He was no Tethyrian; I am unsure he knew more than I did. Yet a thorough man would have sought truths in order to strengthen his cover. Perhaps it was so.
I stopped my search after that. I dealt with certainties. That which was here, in my new life, my new home. The people around me who touched my life, and whose lives I touched in return. Duties and deeds I could be proud of, even as I watched them slowly be bound up in shadows and lies.
I acted as though I could be more than the sins of the past; and when I came to believe it, that is when I truly understood my God.
This missive comes to me, then, as a changed man. Yet it is written to me, and the carefully crafted words have many targets; some of them hit.
I had thought, if the past came to haunt me, it would centre on those deeds I most hold with shame; I had thought perhaps it would be hatred for my family which would show itself; or for all those who gave oath to Alemander the tyrant.
Yet this letter is seemingly not born of anything but a very personal antipathy. For me. As between two bravos, who still scratch the scars they gave each other.
If it is not a ruse, born of lies, this letter would have come if I was a dissolute exile, half crazed bandit, or nihilistic servant of steel and ambition.
It does not care that I am a man born into Ilmater's faith, other than how such a truth can wound. How such a truth can burn.
I should never have taken my name once more. I should have let it stay buried. For if this letter is truth, not lies, my vanity has caused suffering, yet again.
I must know.
I must go home.
_________
Not alone though; not alone.
What will she think of Tethyr? What will she think of our fertile vale nestled between the Sulduskoon, the forest and the Starspires?
Will she wilt in the summer heat? Will an icy heart melt, or will she burn up?
She would not hear of remaining behind. Loyalty, support, offered. Accepted.
Yet this is danger, we walk into; even if the letter is but a fragment of a diseased mind. Because my countrymen will be no friend to a servant of the old King, I think.
Our horses broke the crest of the rise to find sight of our quarry at last. A small group was huddled together to block our advance, just over a score of men clutching a ragged mixed of stolen castle-forged steel, and the makeshift weapons of a peasant rabble. Even from here I could imagine the fear in their eyes. A voice yelled for them to stand closer, and they shuffled shoulder to shoulder, huddled together. But without spears and shields, and without proper training, they were not going to be a match for mounted men-at-arms, certainly not when we had the numbers on them.
The reason for their heroic sacrifice became clear. Behind them, heading for the next small rise, was a ragged group; the rest of the rebels and their families. They were moving as fast as they could towards the distant treeline. They would not make it before nightfall, let alone before we caught them.
I gave the orders swiftly. “Tusha, six to the left. Marshan, six to the right. Keep making passes until they scatter then circle around behind, form a cordon. The rest of you stay here with me, and lance any who make a break for it. We gather before we ride on for the rest.”
Tusha and Marshan nodded and began their ride, as the rest of us came to a halt on the crest. I gripped the reins hard. My hands still ached from breaking Invaer’s life. I had not slept. My face was a mask of ice, but beneath it, I felt a killing rage still; and that was the only thing that could boil away the doubt.
They rode beautifully, lances levelled. Forming a column, and spacing out, they plucked the lives of the men on the edges of the ragged mob even as that voice kept on yelling. “Keep together, keep together!”
Yet the peasants were already wavering. A second pass was accompanied by the glinting steel of drawn blades. Blood misted in the air. There was an infernal din of horses’ hooves, the clash of steel on steel, and the cries of the wounded and dying. Yet a slash caught the legs of one of the riders as they passed, and he peeled away, squealing in rage and anger. Another took a pitchfork to his shield and was unhorsed, scrabbling away stunned before he was rescued by comrades. Dust began to rise from the dry earth, as the horsemen swirled around and around the peasant rebels. It was inevitable that their formation broke, as the men turned to face the lashing blades of the riders, despite the protestations of that crying voice.
“Don’t break ranks! Keep shoulder to shoulder!” I could see him now, his blue tabard one of ours. Kerin, a deserter.
It was then that I reached across to the man next to me, took his lance, levelled it, and charged. We were one, my horse and I; Vigilant galloped forward, filled with the same ardour as me. My spearpoint hungry for Kerin’s heart. With the ranks broken he was exposed, and with the dust and the growing panic of his comrades he barely saw me before the lance bit flesh; an imperfect hit near the shoulder, and he went down, gagging and gasping.
With their leader stuck, the heroic rebels scattered. And Tusha and Marshan obeyed their orders, soon a loose ring of horsemen enveloped the fleeing peasants, with those who tried to break out being speared or slashed for their efforts. Soon all that were left was a cloud of defeated men, half of what had stood against us.
Only one of us was within the cordon. And I had no mercy. I drew the mithral longsword at my side; it was quick and light in my hand, its curved blade cutting easily through the first upraised arm which tried to block my attack. I rode amidst the milling shapes, swift and furious, the blade lashing out again and again. It took the lives of men in my hands as easily as it did in the hands of an elf. These peasants, they had to die. Here, a man was taken in the throat. There, I cut down a man trying to flee. I rode past one swordsman at speed, the advantage of height and years of training letting me cut through his defences.
My shins were covered with gore. Vigilant’s sweaty flanks stained red.
By the gods, my hands ached.
It became less battle, more exhibition. I disarmed a foe, sending his club skittering away before I struck him down with a well aimed blow. I circled a pair who stood back to back, one with an axe, the other clutching a pair of blacksmiths hammers. I pulled away, riding to the cordon and taking a lance. I trotted to the pair, breaking into a canter to pass them and jab with the lance; spearing one, then the other, with superior reach.
They would know they had defied their rightful lords. They would know our commitment to keeping the peace.
For the final foe, a weeping youth clutching a sword he had retrieved from somewhere, I galloped past, taking his head in a swift stroke as if it was a melon on a post.
As his body fell I circled round, dismounting as the men came in to finish the wounded. I found Kerin; he was coughing blood and his breaths were rapid gasps. I clutched at his collar as I knelt over him. My voice low, conspiratorial, as if he held some great secret.
“Why did you betray your oaths? Why did you sow chaos? Why did you turn against the people? Why did you choose to die here, a criminal?”
His eyes were glazed by the time I finished. He would not be answering me.
I walked back over to my grey charger, mounting in a swift motion. The remaining rebels were still moving, painfully slowly. The slaughter had not encouraged the remaining fighters, and the whole body was still moving with an anxious, hopeless air.
Apart from one. A single man stood half way up the next rise with a spear. He seemed to have no intention of fleeing. I saw the men noticed it. The rebels did too, and their families. There were some shouts to him to bid him to flee – apparently most placed their hopes in scattering to the four winds now, the mob breaking apart.
Yet he stood.
“Mine.” I said as I took another replacement lance. It was understood that this one was to be my prey. I lowered the lance and cantered forward. The spearman did not move. He seemed calm in fact, or resigned. I picked up the pace, the sound of Vigilant’s hooves loud as the distance closed. Still he did not move. I was filled with rage.
Why was he standing? Why was he giving up his life? How dare he defy!
My eyes were focused on him, I pictured the target as I had been taught.
Then I heard a voice cry out in anguish from the refugees above. I had heard it before, in hushed whispers by a fire; in laughter and light; laced with hope and happiness; and tainted by anguish, echoing out of the pit from where I had sent it.
I looked.
I do not know if the voice was real. I do not know if I saw her, or if it was a madness born of guilt. But my lance was forgotten.
And the spearman had forgotten nothing. The point pierced Vigilant’s chest, driving home with the full weight of our charge. He made a horrible whinnying noise, rearing up in agony. And he fell, me with him; his shadow over me, crushing me. And I knew no more.
I remember each day began the same, with Nana’s hand on my shoulder, a smile in her eyes. She was not my wetnurse, but had been my father’s – my mother sent my own nurse away quite promptly after I was weaned, and did the same with Errilar’s. I remember neither of them, only Nana, a walnut and grey collection of wrinkles and smiles. She would help me wash and dress, pulling on a blue tunic lined with gold, and like trousers. We’d have to be presentable. Nana then went to get Errilar out of bed and I would then sit in the nursery for a quarter of an hour or so, relishing holding court over the carved wooden soldiers there without my brother’s treasonous interference. Once he was dressed, we’d go down to breakfast with my mother and father.
Nana used to help with our meals when we were very young but nowadays we ate ourselves. My mother was very particular about this meal, and if my father was in the castle than she made clear that it was expected we all ate together. “They spend too much time with servants.” She would say. “They need proper examples, even in small things.” Still, it was a swift meal, my father generally offering brief words of encouragement before he had to dash off. Today was no different.
“What will you study this morning?” He asked, as he always did, despite the fact the pattern did not vary much in these first years. Part of a morning ritual, trying to connect with his sons even as his mind was straying to the tasks of the day. “We’ve got a test.” Errilar said glumly. We learned side by side, even though he was a year and a half younger than me. He was just given easier work to do. My father ruffled Errilar’s hair, a brief flash of the affection that was better hidden in later years, before smiling to his wife. “Oh, if such was the only duty on our shoulders, my lady.” Mother returned a polite, restrained smile. “They will grow into more.” Then a servant arrived to take us to our lessons.
The tutor, Bedrang, was a pinch-faced old man, his permanent frown and arched back born from a lifetime spent staring into books. I know little of his past or his motivations, a child rarely has cause to ask of such. I do remember the clack of his cane on the floor each day as he approached the classroom and how it would smack down on our desks if we were distracted or too slow, or worse, incorrect. I remember his pale blue eyes staring at us intently, I remember the imperious tone in the questions he posted to us during each morning’s test and I think I remember pride at a job well done when we showed progress.
Oddly, he was the only one in the castle, outside the family, who did not refer to me as “m’lord.”
After the test we moved to the proper lessons of the day. We began with grammar and languages, studying common, Thorass and Alzhedo, working in silence as we copied out new tenses and declensions, new words, new texts in prose. We each had an unmarked, leather bound book; I did not know how old the books were, but my father said he and my uncle learned from them just as Errilar and I did. I suppose some conscientious tutor of generations passed had authored them as a learning aid. The books were strange things, on each pair of pages, the left one would cover vocabulary and grammar in common, moving to longer passages to read and copy. On the right would be the same, but in Alzhedo or Thorass. For the first hour we would work in common, using chalk to write out lines on our slates as instructed by the book. Then we would do the same pages but in the other languages.
We would move to arithmetic next, Bedrang scrawling sums and times tables on the chalkboard before us, and my brother and I frowning and doing our best to answer before our tutor grew displeased. Errilar seemed to love numbers, so proud when he proclaimed the right answer. I always hated them; no wonder I would have made a mess of the temple accounts were it not for Cheryl. I am grateful for that. Bedrang could always tell when I grew frustrated. ”You must concentrate, Ameris. You must know your numbers. When you are grown you will be responsible for the taxes and rents of the whole county.” So I glumly plodded on.
At noon, a servant would interrupt our lessons so that we might take lunch with mother. Sometimes my father would attend if his duties had not taken him away from the castle, but it was rare. If it was winter, we would eat in the Solar. If it was summer, like today we dined in the walled garden that my grandfather had so favoured. I always felt like I could see him there, eyes twinkling under bushy brows.
Usually my mother would be there first, seated with a glass of juice at the set table. We would approach and each kiss her proffered cheek, before taking our seats. There would be a few moments of silence as our meals were served – my mother would be angered if it took longer than that. Speech during the meal was restricted to corrections of our manners and bearing. Once the plates were cleared away, mother would expect us to make polite conversation.
“Have you been diligent in your studies today?” Her voice like cut class, sharp and clear.
“I was adding in four’s today! I hardly made any mistakes! Bedrang says I am good at numbers.” Errilar enthused, eyes bright. My mother reached across to pat his hand twice. Pat pat. “Well done.” There was a warmth in her tone, like a gust of hot air when one opens an oven.
“I wish I could do numbers ALL DAY.” Errilar continued. An exaggeration probably. But my mother chuckled. “I liked maths when I was a girl, as well.”
I offered my own achievements. “I translated a rhyme from Alzhedo to common...” I was hesitant. My mother did not like Alzhedo, it was the tongue of the Santraegers, not the Deshars. Although she did her duty and tried to learn it shortly after her marriage to my father, she never mastered it. Perhaps it was that which lent the frustration to her voice as she corrected my protocol. “Good, Ameris. But do not interrupt. Join the conversation, do not break it.”
“Yes mother.”
After lunch we were escorted back to the classroom. Bedrang always chided whichever hapless servant took us there for their lateness, irrelevant of when we arrived. I remember pointing out this was unfair once, Bedrang gave me fifty lines. His authority was absolute in the classroom.
In the afternoon we began with learning the history of Tethyr, and its Kings and Queens. We would learn about how the slaves threw off the yoke of Calimsham, of the rise of the Clans and the first kings of the Ithal dynasty, all the way through to the rise of the Lion Dynasty and the strife with the Elves. We would learn, as well, of the role our family played in those times, and of the traditions of the Santraeger; of great deeds on the River Agis and battles against the enemies of the realm. Then we would spend time reviewing yellowed maps of the County, the Duchy and the Realm, so we might learn of this land of ours. And finally, we’d learn of the heraldry, deeds and names of other nobles of Tethyr, so that we were not ignorant of our peers.
A servant would come to collect us and bring us back to the nursery. Nana would be there, and she’d speak warmly, asking of our day while we had some milk and honeyed oatcakes, if we had been good. Then, she’d call us over to her. “Gather round, my dears.” pulling Errilar up into her lap – and me, before I got too big – and telling us some wild fairy story about magical beasts or cunning heroes. We would listen, wide-eyed and rapt. This was almost my favourite part of the day.
What came after was better. Because we got to play in the nursey with the toys for a whole hour. Sometimes two. Its now when the great battles between wooden knights and wooden hobgoblins occurred. My brother always had to be the hobgoblins; I took the knights and had them plough through his ranks, although I usually had the grace to let him finish setting them up. In fact I insisted on that. We named all the knights each time. One would be King Silvyr; one would be Darrom; one would be father. One would be Uncle Enjivar. One would be me. One would be Errilar; I’d let my brother control him sometimes. Looking back, I think I was a little domineering. We must have conquered all of Tethyr three times over during my childhood. They were the best toys. I left the spinning tops and the marbles to my brother if he did not want to play soldiers; I would fight the battles myself!
When father was not away, as soon as he had discharged his duties we got collected by Nana to wash up and get ready for dinner. Nana would present us to our parents clean and ready for the meal and give a report of our behaviour. Then, most days, we’d go down to the great hall and dine before and with the servants and soldiers of the castle, Errilar and I sitting at the family table beside my parents. We would have to be on our best behaviour, so that we could form a model family; the type of family that people were proud to serve.
True family time only came at the end of the day, after dinner, as dusk gave way to night. We’d gather in the Solar, and my father would be there in a simple blue doublet, tired eyes surveying his wife and progeny. He would ask each about their day. For his sons, came questions; particularly for me. He wanted to know I understood what I had learned. That I would understand it and apply it in the future.
Tonight, my father was nursing a cup of wine, as was his custom. White in the summer months. My mother was sitting with her embroidery. Errilar was curled up by the unlit fire, tired, watching the floral pattern take shape from my mother’s art. I had the Count’s full attention. I was telling him how we had learned of the myths of the Eye-Tyrant Wars today and of the great battles that took place.
My father smiled. “Imagine a war against magical horrors, son. What good is a horse and lance against eyes that shoot death? I wonder why anyone would ever mount up and fight.”
“But they had slaves and crazy people to fight for them, father, so you could poke them with lances.”
“Yet still the Tyrants were there with their magic eyes. They just had to look at you.” My father stared grimly at me, then smiled. There was something of my grandfather about him tonight; perhaps it was after a cup of wine. “...and even the bravest man turned to dust. Surely it would have been easier just to hide and let the desert dwellers fight against the Eye-Tyrants alone?”
“But...but...didn’t the Tethyrians promise to help? When they swore the oaths of alliance with the armies of Calimsham. You have to do what you promise!”
My father smiled, his pleasure at that answer evident. “Yes, you do. Remember that.”
My mother glanced towards the exchange. Then, there was a look of surprise in her eyes as she gazed towards the door.
My father’s personal servant Desho, well into his old age, stood in the doorway beside one of our soldiers. “Your excellency.” Desho said.
“Speak.” Father answered.
“This man comes with message. There are warning beacons lit to the north. Two.”
My father stood. “Call Jalamir and a troop to arms.”
The soldier spoke now. “The Master-at-Arms has already marshalled a troop. We await you, your excellency.”
My father stood, walking over to my mother and kissing her cheek. He ruffled Errilar’s hair.
“But father, I had more to tell you!” I exclaimed, perhaps a little upset. I had not seen him often, recently. Without an adult heir and with grandfather being gone, much fell onto his head.
He laid a hand on my shoulder, his voice kindly. “We do what we promise, son, even if it means we cannot do what we want to do. That is our duty. That is why we are fit to rule.”
I did pout, frowning, but I nodded.
My mother bid Errilar to her and stood between the two of us, a hand on my shoulder, a hand on his, as we went to watch the men marshalling in the courtyard, and saw my father, attired now in mail, mount his horse. He raised a hand to the balcony upon which we stood, and we waved in return. I was still a bit sullen.
My mother’s nails dug into my shoulder, though. “Your father does his duty. Do yours, Ameris. No more outbursts like that; the servants should see you being proud to send him off. They should not see a man that they will one day have to follow sulking like a baby.”
The ice in her voice chilled my mood until I was tucked up in bed. Yet tomorrow was another day; and I knew where my life would lead.
Last edited by kleomenes on Mon Jun 20, 2016 9:19 am, edited 1 time in total.
Bedrang loomed over me, his imperious gaze moving over my slate and the sums and solutions written there.
“Wrong.” He said, tapping the slate at the first wrong answer.
“Wrong. Wrong.” He said as his finger moved down, picking out each mistake.
Errilar’s head was bowed. He had already had his corrections, and he knew Bedrang had a poor patience for intercessions of one brother in the corrections of another.
“You can do better than this, Ameris. And I expect you to...”
Someone cleared their throat in the doorway. “M’lord. Its time.” A servant waited there, in blue livery. Isik, I believe his name was.
My eyes brightened and I looked to Bedrang, who nodded. “Put your things away first.”
I hopped off the chair and hurried to put the book and the slate I had been using back on the shelf.
“But I want to go tooooo!” cried Erriliar. Bedrang tapped the slate before my brother. “You aren’t old enough yet. Stick to your lessons.”
“Aww...” pouted Errilar. Bedrang just tapped the slate again as I followed Isik out of the classroom.
He took me to the arming room, where racks of swords, spears and warhammers were arranged, and shields and suits of mail hung ready for use. A closed door on the far side led to the courtyard. Yet my eyes rested only upon the tiny suit of studded leather armour on a custom rack at the end – an Ameris sized suit. Even as I goggled at it, Isik poured and offered me a cup of water from a pitcher on a nearby shelf. “You have to drink this, m’lord. Its hot out.” I did so, knowing the command will have come from on high.
Then it was time to don the suit. Isik helped me place the main cuirass over my head, and laced up the various shaped pads and greaves. I barely moved to help, I could not believe it was finally happening. It was tight, and felt very rigid. I know now it was to slow my reactions and movements, so that when I moved up to wearing real armour, it would seem light and free in comparison.
Finally protected, I was ushered out of the doors and into the bright sunlight of the courtyard. I squinted out towards the figure stood in the centre, already glad of the water that was still drying on my lips– the cuirass was hot. A rack lay near to him. Upon it, two undersized wooden swords, and two shields. A short distance away was a sword target formed of bound up hay into the rough shape of a man; a soldier in fact, with an old pointed helmet from Calimsham crowning it. As I approached I saw the figure waiting for me was a powerfully built man with a clipped, salt and pepper beard and dark eyes which regarded me neutrally – Jalamir, the Calish soldier who was now our master at arms. He watched me, stony faced, and I was intimidated, my gaze dropping to his chest. There, next to our family sigil, lay a small silver pendant to Helm. The craft of it was beautiful; of the type found in Myratma or across the border in Memnon. Beautiful and almost feminine, incongruous on the man’s chest.
“M’lord.” He rumbled. “Its time to learn your craft.”The Sword. How I had waited for this! He walked over to the rack, pulling off one of the wooden swords. He offered it to me, hilt first. My grip was lazy and weak, and he circled around behind me, arms wrapping round to guide my hand. “No.” He said. “Like this.” I felt the sword calluses on his palms.
I was directed to the target. “Attack it.”
“How?” I asked.
“Would you be able to ask me what to do in a battle? Attack it.”
I frowned, and swiped at the thing, a wavering, uncertain slash.
“No. Like you want to hit it.” The voice was commanding, but not sharp.
I struck harder, maybe a bit annoyed.
“Better.”
And on it went. I know what it was he was trying to teach me that day, to keep a proper grip as I struck, less interested in the form of blow itself; and to dispel my fear and excitement over these new lessons. And so I vented all the exuberance of an eight year old boy against the dummy until, finally, Jalamir called a halt. He held his hand out for the wooden sword. Panting, I handed it over, wilting in the heat of the sun as he returned it to the rack. This was part of it too, to learn to fight through discomfort.
Without a word, he approached me again and, to my deepest shock, drew the heavy longsword at his waist. It was Tethyrian in style, despite his birth in Calimsham. It was the first time I saw the sword he wore for the next decade; the sword that saved my life. It glinted brightly in the sun as he handed it to me.
“Both hands.” Jalamir commanded. My arms wavered under the weight.
“Hold it.” The stern voice came. “Do you feel its weight? Its a sword like this you will have to use.”
“Its so heavy!” I cried with dismay.
“Remember that.” The man said. I think he meant something more than just the physical weight, in that moment.
“Attack the target.”
“I can’t, I...”
“Attack it. You aren’t a baby.” For the first time, an edge of cruelty in the voice. It did the job though. I gave out a cry of effort as I swept a double handed blow, thudding the blade into the target’s flank, cutting one of the bindings so that my foe bled a stream of dislogdged hay.
“Lower your sword.” Came the command. Jalamir came to stand beside me, taking his blade back as he eyed the target. “Well done, I think he’s dead.” He said. The tone was as gruff and deadpan as before, but I saw a twinkle in his eyes as he looked down at my handiwork, then me.
I heard firm clapping behind me, joined shortly afterwards by childish applause. We both turned, and there was my father and Errilar. Jalamir sheathed his sword and bowed at once. My father wore a pleased smile; Errilar looked impressed.
“Making progress?” father asked as he came to stand before us. I saw a few of the soldiers had gathered too, to see their young lord in training. Curious, perhaps, as to whether he would measure up.
“Yes, your excellency. He’s got lots to learn but he’ll learn it.” Jalamir replied. His tone was matter of fact, respectful but not craven.
"Good.” Father nodded to Jalamir. “Well done, Ameris.” He ruffled my hair.
“Can I hold it?” Asked Erriliar, wide eyed, thinking of Jalamir’s blade. “No.” My father said, in a tone which suggested he’d already had this conversation.
“Your excellency. Perhaps Ameris can show the boy how to grip properly?”
My heart swelled with pride. “I can do that!” My father relented, nodding, and Jalamir gestured to the rack, for me to retrieve one of the wooden practice blades.
“Come here Erriliar. You hold it like this, see?” I showed him.
“Okay.” My brother said, reaching for the handle. He gripped it tightly, just as excited as I had been.
“No, like this.” I fussed.
I was almost sure I saw Jalamir and father smirk to each other, but when I looked again, it was gone, as they spoke of other matters. And I had a lesson to give, anyway.
It was not a large manor, compared to those in the country; but as a space within the walls of Ithmong it was generous. Smooth, high walls of dressed stone, generously topped with spikes. An iron gate, topped with a series of wheatsheafs plated in gold, the sigil of the Deshar family. My mother’s family. I peered excitedly out of the window of the carriage. “Sit down, Ameris. Do not gawk. The commons will see.” My mother chided testily.
One of my auntie’s was getting married at her new husband’s country estate south of Ithmong. My mother was attending, of course. At ten, I was considered old enough to attend with her. We had travelled to Ithmong first in order to make the rest of the journey in the company of some of her other relatives. Most of the Deshar had travelled already, so we would be a small party.
I sat back down as groundsmen in the yellow and tan livery of the Deshar family opened the gates. Gravel crunched under the carriage’s wheels as it rolled into the formal garden’s beyond. Well tended beds on either side of the drive were filled with colourful, fragrant flowers, and the trees and hedges that swayed lightly in the summer’s breeze were pruned, sculpted and controlled. The garden was beautiful, but it was not a haven of wild nature in the city.
As the carriage drew to a halt, the coachman vaulted from the side and lowered the little set of stairs, before opening the door so that we could disembark into the bright sun, shielding our eyes, as our escort of men at arms cantered through the gate after us. My mother opened out her parasol, tutting slightly. I followed, up the shallow steps leading to the main doors, my mother’s maid trailing after us. The manor was made of a similar dressed stone to the walls, with finely sculpted columns bracketing the teak doors, beautifully carved with images of the agricultural year. The Deshar gained their wealth from a dominance of Ithmong’s cotton trade, shipping tons of the stuff down the Ith every year to Myratma. Yet the coin that had won this dominance had come from land, like all wealth of note in Tethyr, and the family preferred to present the image of respectable farmers rather than cutthroat traders.
The doors swung open, revealing a lofty entrance hall, with a sweeping grand staircase up to the upper floors. The interior was panelled in dark wood, the borders of the panels bearing ornate carvings similar to those on the main doors. Pictures hung for display, on the left a countryside vista, and on the right a scene from the Deshar's family history, a representation of the slaying of a wyvern by Tethlila Deshar, a distant ancestor of the current Baron, my grandfather. Such bespoke painting indicated wealth.
An attentive, immaculately attired servant brought us both a cup of water, which we wordlessly took. My mother wet her throat as I gulped my water down, peering about, handing the cup back without looking. I began to wander towards the wyvern painting.
"Ameris. Come here. Stand up straight. Be attentive when you greet your grandfather."
The tone in her voice carried a trace of tension; she knew she would be judged as a mother by my comportment – as a mother and as a woman. And this judgment, unlike all others, mattered.
My grandfather wore a pale tan suit, detailed in golden thread. He carried himself regally, his hair full and beard neatly clipped, despite the silver that dominated it now. Green eyes, just like mine and my mothers, rested above his cheekbones. His arms spread as he reached the bottom step. “Mida!” He exclaimed. “My daughter! You grow more beautiful with each passing year!” He stepped forward to embrace her.
“Father.” My mother said softly, resting her head on his shoulder for a moment.
Baron Deshar stepped back, and turned to me, leaning down a little to look me in my eyes. “And who is this? Young Ameris, it cannot be. This is near a man grown!” His eyes twinkled, and he patted my head. I liked him immediately.
We were introduced to one of my cousins, Tefa, the daughter of Baron Emear and my auntie Zareda. She was three or four years older than me, it seemed like a lot at the time. She had a lean face, and I remember clearly the ruby red spot on the side of her nose which she had tried to hide with powder. We took tea in a drawing room on the ground floor while our luggage was carried in. Sitting quietly while the adults and Tefa talked got boring very quickly, but I made sure not to show it.
It was a surprise, though, when the Baron stood. “Mida, may I borrow your son for a while, before dinner?”
Mother was surprised too. “Of course, father.” She gave me a look as we left. Do not embarrass me.
The Baron’s hands were behind his back as he led me along a promenade gallery to the rear of the mansion, which looked out over the flower garden behind. Along one wall were a series of portraits; Deshar ancestors. “Which of these can you name, Ameris?” He asked, a twinkle in his eye.
I started confidently. “That is Auntie Iline, there is Auntie Zareda, there is Uncle Zvistan. This one is mother.”
The next two were fine as well. “That one is you. That is grandmother.”
I drew a blank, then. “Um...”
“My brother and his wife. They died young. Then these are my parents. Then we move further back; we don’t have everyone here, but there is a painting of everyone somewhere in the house.”
“I’m sorry. I only know the names.” I pointed to my great grandparents. “Orsul and Dinnavia?”
“Very good. Let me tell you about them.”
His hand on my shoulder, the baron led me down the line of paintings, telling me the tales he had learned of each of our common ancestors on display there. Of the careful husbanding of the Deshar estates into the fertile holdings that were the bedrock of the family’s commercial strength. A cautious family, focused on stability within its lands. At the end, we stopped, and he said.
“It is not a line of illustrious warriors like your father sprang from, perhaps. Although we do have our own heroes.”
He nodded towards the armoured form shown in the painting of Tethlila Deshar before he continued. “But while you are riding through those hills and valleys in the north, will you remember our tradition, too?”
I nodded solemnly. I didn’t want to let him down.
We set off the next morning, all of us in the carriage mother and I had come in, although with a Deshar pennant raised from it to denote the Baron was inside. I sat opposite my grandfather. My mother next to me, opposite cousin Tefa. A second carriage, less grand, followed behind with the luggage and servants. There were a pair of liveried footmen on the roofs of both carriages, a light guard for my grandfather. Although they looked nothing more than servants, they had stout sticks to hand and short swords by their side. I was used to more heavily armed escorts than this, and larger as well. Even my mother and I had brought half a dozen men at arms, who wore their mail even in the bright sun. Yet Baron Deshar had ordered these to ride behind the wagons, not beside them.
“I don’t ride through Ithmong like I have something to fear.” He had said as we boarded the coach. I remember quite liking that statement.
On we rolled through the streets, heading towards the Ithal Road which cut through the city from north to south. The road ran across the Ithal bridge, the one crossing of the River Ith for many miles either way. Ithmong was awake, its people beginning their day and clustering the streets as they went about their business, but the Ithal road was wide, near as wide as the four wagon wide bridge itself.
The Ithal bridge is truly a wonder, some say it predates even the foundation of the city. As we crossed it, Grandfather laid a hand on my shoulder and gestured for me to look out over the river, upstream. My mother and cousin Tefa paid no heed, one reading a book of poetry, the other undertaking some travel embroidery: tasks they exchanged daily over the course of the journey.
As I looked out, I saw that on the south bank there was a wide open space, or rather a space that would have been open if it was not cluttered with scores of wagons. Piers and docks lined the shore and people moved crates and bales between boat and wagon.
“The Wheel Market. That is where passing traders stop to buy and sell their wares, or to transfer them to barges heading downriver to Myratma. That is where our produce leaves from.”
Our, of course, meaning Deshar. Any surpluses that Santraeger lands provided were sold locally. We did not have a good eye for markets. Nor, I suspect, did the shades of Santraeger long dead want us to.
Across the bridge, we happened upon some urban chaos. A caravan of wagons had arrived in the city, and was turning into the Wheel Market when the lead one had lost a front wheel, then the other as it veered over a pothole. Having swung out to take the turning, the unlucky driver had managed to end up with his charge blocking half of the Ithal Road, much to the annoyance of other travellers. Given the wagon’s state, it would need repaired just where it was.
Luckily, someone had taken charge. A man in the livery of the Duke had stopped the flow of wagons from our side of the river, and was waving the broken wagon’s comrades forward. Not least so the cart carrying the cooper and spare wheels could come and attend to its stricken brother. It meant, though, that we had to stop for a few minutes.
It did not take long. Even without the Deshar pennant flying from our carriage, the number and livery of our escorts marked our little convoy out as carrying a noble. I peered at the score of scrawny, bedraggled figures that stood up from the gutters or emerged from tenements on the side streets. Dirty faces, yellow teeth, the dull look of hunger in their eyes. I’d not seen poverty like this before; the soul destroying, subsistence starved, hope starved desperation that turns human beings into cruel animals willing to do anything to and for others in order to eat. That type of poverty as common as rats in large cities. That type of poverty that is among the keenest foes of the Broken God.
We did not have that poverty in Suldaskar. Not before those lean winters. The Sherrifs my father and grandfather appointed had duties to administer the distribution of surplus grain in times of need. After all, healthy peasants were productive peasants, fit to serve. But here there were no sherrifs, there was no land, there was little honest work. So the most poor relied upon the intermittent largesse of a mercurial nobility.
The piteous appeals came in a discordant chorus. Surprisingly quiet, as if the beggars knew that the words themselves were not important.
“Alms, bless you noble lords...”
“Spare a coin, m’lord!”
“Your graces, if’n you’d be so kind, me little baby’s got to eat...”
“I need coin to get a cure for the sweat-shivers...”
Tefa’s nose wrinkled. My mother tutted angrily. My grandfather’s eyes twinkled.
“Mida, you have not changed.”
He raised his cane and tapped twice on the roof. The footmen above began to toss down little pouches filled with coppers to the crowd. There were scuffles when a pouch landed close between two beggars, this went unmarked by my fellow passengers.
“I’ve always said that it behoves for us to show our generosity, and remind the commons where the civilised life they enjoy comes from.”
“Yes, you have always said that.” Said my mother with a wry smile. The Baron chuckled.
Suddenly, a gnarled, cracked face appeared at the window between my mother and my cousin. He had rheumy eyes, and a single yellow tooth at his front. His grey, patchy hair revealed a mottled and scabby scalp.
Tefa let out a little cry. “Ew!!”
I was transfixed; and a little scared, I admit.
“M’lord Baron! I went without! I beg ye...” the impoverished monster at the window crooned.
My mother leaned back, disgust on her face. “Honestly...no dignity.”
Still smiling from his mirthful chuckle, my grandfather banged twice again on the roof, barely sparing the beggar a glance. I saw a figure in Deshar livery drop from the roof, one of the footmen.
Desperately, the beggar ploughed on. “I be begging ye for the coin for a hot...” The heavy stick the footman carried cut him off, cracking him over the back of the head. The crowd dispersed hurriedly as the stick swung down another three times. The unconscious man was dragged away and left bleeding in the gutter.
“But...he was only hungry...!” I exclaimed, confused.
“Do not question your grandfather!” my mother hissed in a cold rage, her nails digging into my arm. Tefa looked at me as if I was a goblin.
The baron only chuckled. “Its alright, Mida.” He leaned forward, looking me in the eye. “The thing is, my boy, while its good to show our generosity, its also good that these rabble know their place. And they know nothing unless we tell them.”
Ostensibly, young nobles spent time in the Duke’s court as pages in order to serve; it was thought fitting that the regular visits of high dignitaries were attended by service of suitable rank, that it to say youths of elevated birth. So as we approached our thirteenth birthday many of us not already fostered were sent off to the Duke’s court, with a trunk of possessions and high hopes, to spend just over three years in service.
But the real reason we were there was apparent from what filled most of our days: we improved our swordplay and horsemanship, we learned etiquette and social grace, we studied literature at a higher level and, almost unnoticed, we watched how the duchy was ruled. In short, it was like attending a school to train us as the future rulers of Tethyr.
Perhaps one of the chief reasons for this collective service and study by young aristocrats was so that we would meet each other. We would know faces and names, and be educated in a common culture and manner of behaviour. When we met at war councils and is the Duke’s court we would not be strangers; when our sons and daughters married each other we would know all the guests.
This all went over our heads, of course, at the time. For us it was strange and terrifying, even exciting. It was our first time out of the comforting embrace of the home castle or manor. We all came from places where we mattered, where we were the most important, doted on even. Here, in the Dukes Court, we lived little better than real servants, with no more than the contents of a single trunk and a bag to our name. We were one of many Baron’s sons and Count’s sons. We were not special anymore.
I was a late in coming to the Court, near the last of that year. Some of the boys had arrived three months ago. I remember stepping into the bunk room which I was to share with my friend for three years; and I remember my immediate disappointment.
My first sight of Lord Ardus Tarsin, heir to the County of Rivershire, was less than impressive. A great mound of a boy, a smart tunic and overtight breeches, lying on the bottom bunk and looking for all the world like he was contemplating crying. His hair was a little overlong, adding to the softness of his features.
"Leave me alone. I will not listen to you any more. I have done nothing to you!” He said, miserable.
”I do not know who you are.” My trunk thudded onto the floor. Realising his mistake, Ardus sat up, trying to make himself look presentable. "Ardus Tarsin.” He introduced himself as. I noticed he obeyed that dictat we had been given by the Duke’s chamberlain, that titles had no place in the dormitory. Yet, still, they bunked Count’s sons with Count’s sons and Baron’s sons with Baron’s sons.
”Pleasant greetings.” My hail was formal. ”I am Ameris Santraeger, of County Suldaskar.”
Ardus looked blank. This annoyed me. ”It is to the north of the River Suldaskar, beneath the eaves of the Forest of Tethir.”
He smiled apologetically. "Oh, I am sorry! I get my head lost in ancient tales, that is my trouble, they say.”
”Who says?” I was curt.
"My parents. Umm...” Ardus looked hesitant. ”Look, it is alright if you do not want to talk to me. People do not want too normally.”
I just looked at him. This was not getting off to a good start.
I started hanging my clothes, and got out my favourite things, including my brand new book – The Seven Battles of Strohm II. I was looking forward to dipping into its blood and guts patriotic heroism later. Ardus contented himself with sitting on his bottom bunk, writing in a small journal - what I was soon to discover was his diary.
"I did not mean to be rude, Ameris Santraeger.” He said, suddenly. I did not stop what I was doing. "It is just that the others think I am soft and you will be no different I am sure.”
He did look soft, although I was to learn he had more to him once he got fitter.
Ardus’s voice changed, an air of jest. "I keep on telling them though that I might be rubbish in a battle but in a siege I would be great. I would be like a walking mantlet for you all to hide behind.”
I laughed, briefly. He grinned.
I shrugged. ”We will have to talk if we are sharing a room.”
There was a knock at the door, and they did not wait to be called inside. The first thing that annoyed me.
Two boys our age stood there. The one on the right had sandy brown hair, a clean face, and blue eyes. Cold blue eyes. His lips were formed into a grin, wildly amused except for his gaze, where he looked sharp. The one on the left was grinning, but his pinched face made it more like a sneer. He was tall, and powerful for his age. He had a deep tan and blonde, neatly trimmed locks. A pale brown gaze met mine.
”So this is the fresh meat?” He said, stepping forward. Sizing me up, clearly. ”I’m Zefan Fargaos.” He offered his hand, a greeting between equals. An easy informality. Despite the fact his family only held a Barony up the Sulduskoon. The second thing that annoyed me.
But I remembered the rules. ”Ameris Santraeger.”
The other boy nodded, nearly bowing his head. Less annoying. ”Jaster Helimvas.”
I retained formality. ”Pleasant greetings.”
Zefan ploughed on. ”So you’re new, and you probably don’t know some of the traditions around here. Its the done thing to make fatty cry when you arrive.”
Fatty apparently meant Lord Ardus Tarsin, heir to the County of Rivershire. The third thing that annoyed me.
I was struggling to catch up. ”Why?”
”It is just a bit of fun.” Said Jaster.
Zefan was more direct. ”We need to know if you’re fun or not.” Some of the bonhomie dropped from his voice. ”I’m only friends with fun people. And I’m friends with most people.”
This, to me, sounded like an ultimatum. The fourth thing that annoyed me.
My manners were impeccable. ”I do not understand. Am I meant to make Fatty cry, because it will be fun?”
”Yep!” Zefan said cheerfully.
Jaster, I saw, stepped back, creating a distance between him and Zefan. There was always more going on with Jaster than he let on. He might look like he was here with Zefan; but he was cleverer and more adaptable than his soon to be former friend.
”I thought so.” I said, and buried my fist into Zefans gut. He grunted, doubling over. ”I think you meant Lord Fatty.” I punched him wildly in the face as he rose; I suppose all that hard training Jalamir had given me paid off. He went flying, aided along by a grinning Jaster, who stuck his foot out to trip his former friend. A mercurial change of allegiance.
Zefan Fargaos fell back on his behind, dazed. ”And ask, before you enter a Lord’s room!” I stood over him, fists balled, cheeks flushed. The more I look back, the more I’ve realised I resolve confusion and uncertainty with violence. Broken God, I am glad you have a hand on my shoulder these days.
But just my luck, one of the dormitory wardens employed by the Duke happened by; just in time to see Zefan thud to the floor. Zefan and I were dragged off to the Chamberlain be reminded of our manners; me in particular, quite forcefully. I was aggrieved at the time. Unknowingly, though, I’d toppled a tyrant; as Ardus told everyone that the bully had had to be saved from a beating by the Duke’s servants. No one feared him after that.
As I disappeared down the corridor, Jaster called after me. ”You are going to be fun, Santraeger!” A friendship formed in shared humiliation of another. It did not end like that. It ended in blood and screaming and his death, but I do not regret that for a single moment.
The wedding of the son of the Count of Timbershire was a grandiose affair. It was accorded a fine match even though the bride was a Baron’s daughter. The fact the mother of the bride was the niece of the Duke of Ithmong elevated her to being desirable as a consort for the Count of Timbershire’s son. Guests to the wedding came from all over the Duchy of Ithmong, a gaggle of Counts, Barons, and Knights, their consorts, sons and daughters. The Santraeger were no exception.
The castle which the Count of Timbershire called home was as different as one could imagine from Castle Suldaskar. Larger, for one thing, but grander and built in the style of Calimsham. Its stones dated back to the Shoon, or perhaps even earlier, and long had its rulers embellished the treasures within with the profits of their lumbering operations. I remember looking about the great hall, at the frescos on the walls and the marble tiled floor, the silverware in abundance in the form of goblets and chandeliers. I was quite taken with it all; comparing it in my minds eye to our own draughty hall with its fading tapestries and worn furnishings.
It was the first such event I had attended with my father alone. I was not there as a boy, to hide behind my mother’s skirts and make play at the children’s table. I was my father’s heir, well through my fourteenth year. In just over a year I would be coming home from my service at the Duke’s court to stand by his side, learning how he governed the county. Two years after that I would be a man grown, his right hand. I was young to be attending as heir. I felt like a peacock in my fine attire: an undersized blue and gold-brocade jacket, with my hair trimmed and a lion brooch on my breast. I did look my best, my father had seen to it himself. It is clear why, looking back; I was to be assessed. And not by him.
Baron Deshar, my grandfather, moved through the glamorous crowds towards us. His silver beard was clipped and oiled, and his own waistcoat was a pale tan silk piped with gold; expensive, to those who could judge such. By his side was an unfamiliar, middle aged man in green velvet. On his breast there were threaded a trio of leaping dolphins in silver. His skin was fair, his hair a sandy blonde. He spoke quietly with my grandfather as they walked closely together. On the surface, there was familiarity; I remember that my grandfather chuckled often at things whispered, smiled and nodded, his head bent towards the stranger almost awkwardly.
When they arrived before us, it was my father who spoke first. “Greetings, Baron Deshar.”
He bowed, a small, half bow. Respect to a father, but it was Count Santraeger who was socially superior. The bow was fuller to the next man. “Greetings, your excellency.”
Grandfather bowed low, a twinkle in his eyes. “Count Santraeger. Ardepan, son in the eyes of Chauntea and Helm, may I present to you Count Sarneh.” At this, the stranger – Count Sarneh – bowed as well. I remember, it was slightly less than my father had.
“Count Santraeger, a pleasure to see you again.” Said Count Sarneh as he rose, all smiles except in his eyes. “And this is?” He turned to me as he asked. I remember bowing a moment too early, and piped up in a youth’s voice made shrill by tension. “Ameris, son of the Count Santraeger.”
Count Sarneh chuckled. “A face to a name at last, and a boy a grown to a man already. I’ve heard good things about you from Baron Helimvas, I had to drag out of him that you are the only one his boy cannot put in the dust during sparring.”
I beamed with pride, puffing up my chest. “Its true. Jast...Baron Helimvas’ heir is quick but I can match him, and I can beat him more times than he can beat me. And on the horse too.” The truth was, it was a boast, we were closely matched at this point. And in our last, deadly, duel years later; all that separated us was my faith.
Grandfather’s voice was warm, doting. “The boy is fierce, you can see the Santraeger lion in him, not the Deshar wheat. Ardepan has in his servce the best swordmaster from the south and Ameris will resume training with him when he leaves the Duchal court to return to Castle Suldaskar.“
“Impressive.” The Count Sarneh smiled, and looked to my father. “I heard you are something of a trainer of men, Count Santraeger. No doubt that will apply to your son as well”
My father was polite, but I sensed his confusion. “It is the forest that trains Santraeger men-at-arms, and the savages and monsters therein.”
Count Sarneh’s tone was airy, light. “Oh no. I spoke of your work in Rivershire. Its good that Count Tarsin was generous with your expenses, I can imagine it was quite the trip marching your men so far.”
My father stiffened. Even Baron Deshar could not hide his tiny frown, although to his credit he was out of Count Sarneh’s eyeline.
Of course, I knew later that this was a calculated insult; that the whispers around the Duchy were that the Santraeger were falling on hard times, and that my father’s trip, with a dozen of our soldiers, to Rivershire to fight alongside and train Count Tarsin’s soldiers was not done out of friendship, but for coin as well. That it was tantamount to vulgar mercenary work.
I also found out later that the whispers were not far wrong.
“My family has always taken its oaths to Monarch and Comrade seriously. We rode for a friend, and for the friendship of our sons.” My father was polite; he always had a better handle on himself than I have. It would take a keen eye to see how much he bristled at this exchange.
Suddenly, we were interrupted with a loud, indecent exclamation. “Ams! I mean Ameris! Ameris Santraeger!” There my friend was, Ardus Tarsin, the great mass of him only slightly leaner than he was when I first met him. His jowls were creased in a grin as he bustled over to me with almost none of the reserved grace Tethyr expected of its nobles. The more adult bulk of Count Tarsin followed, wearing the slightly exasperated look that I always saw on the man when he was near his son. His face broke into a smile though as he neared the other adults, and he himself greeted exclaimed. “Ardepan! Well met to you.”
There were no bows here, and instead he reached to clasp my father’s hand in a warriors grip. The man was in many ways as soft and gentle as his son, I think. I wonder if he survived the Black Days. “It is good to see you, my friend. Let me thank you once more for your support this summer; without you we’d have had to evacuate the western villages. I owe you a debt that can never be paid.”
My father smiled, a quick response. “May the friendship between our families cross generations. I would aid you again without thought.”
Count Sarneh’s expression was curious. I can imagine he was weighing this all up. Perhaps my family was poor; but it was in firm alliance with the Tarsin’s of Rivershire; a line both illustrious and wealthy. We brought prowess, and lineage; and what need did Sarneh have for money, with their trade ships?
As I chattered away with Ardus, I saw Count Sarneh look to me, then to my father and Count Tarsin.
“What say you to sending the youths to try their first cup of wine, comrades? I believe we have something to discuss.” Alliance, of course; to be sealed by my marriage to Count Sarneh’s eldest daughter, when we were old enough.
My father nodded as we were dismissed. “Of course.”
I remember wondering then why my grandfather winked at him over Count Sarneh’s shoulder.
Now, I just think how convenient Count Tarsin’s arrival appeared to be.
“I’ll miss you.” Said Audus, and his round arms enfolded me. He’d lost his puppy fat by now; but he was still stocky. I embraced him in return. Then, patted his back, awkwardly.
“You’ll be back to Rivershire soon. Maybe I’ll visit, and we’ll go hunting. Now you can actually get on a horse.”
Audus laughed, beaming a smile. “Its going to be quiet around here. First Jaster, now you. What am I going to do with myself?”
“Fast.” I snapped back, the warmth in my gaze removing the barb of much of its sharpness. Audus was laughing as the servants arrived, that blue livery reminding me of where I was bound.
Suldaskar. Home.
The servants grunted with effort as they carried my trunk. “See you, Ameris.”
“Lord Tarsin.” I replied, bowing. He laughed again, bowing in return, and then I left.
All the business of Ithmong’s nobility filled the courtyard of the Duke’s palace, but still my eyes were drawn to that small wagon near the gate with two men in Santraeger livery sat on it. Four horses were tied up nearby, two more Santraeger men readying them for the journey. There was a fifth man, his hair greyer than when I left, his beard still clipped in the southern style, for all his years his body still held in a warrior’s poise. He saw me before I saw him, and began to walk towards me, passing the servants with the trunk so he could meet me halfway across the plaza.
“Jalamir.” I said, bowing my head to him respectfully. Not too low, he was a servant still. And I was proud of being so close to manliness. I wanted him to see how much I’d grown since last under his tutelage. A proper lord masters his emotion.
“M’lord.” Jalamir yn Ghazar el Rassin, Master of Arms to the Santraeger family bowed to his liege’s heir. Yet the eyes that rose were not supplicatory. They were accusing. A hand on his longsword, curved as it was in the style popular south of the River Agis, he walked around me in silence, circling me like a vulture.
The next words were in his native tongue, Alzhedo. "Your father feared you’d have forgotten the words of your ancestors. I only want to know how badly the trainers here have tainted your bladework.”
It was the tone and the familiarity that made me bristle. I replied in the same language, although haltingly, half forgotten. Alzhedo is not easy.”I excel in both, Master at Arms.”
Jalamir scoffed. ”I have sworn to your father to train you, as I trained him; its to him my oaths. You; you’ll only have them in the future. As I swear by the Watcher, I will be the judge of whether you excel or not.” I mastered my anger. For The Count was not just my father; he was my liege too, or would be when I took my vows. It was for me to obey his command as well.
Jalamir came to stand before me. His brown eyes looking hard into my green. I did not look away, and lifted my chin.
I wanted to show my heart.
I wanted him to see I came back a man.
I wanted him to see I had not forgotten his lessons. ”Good.”The grizzled warrior said at last. ”A lion cub; but one day a lion.”
At this, my mask slipped, I gave a tiny smirk as I retorted. ”One day soon. And never a Jackal.”
Jackal, the nickname this warrior of Manshaka had been given by the other men, when he stumbled out of the service of Pashas in Memnon and across the Agis, to seek service under my Grandfather. A name at first an insult, until his swordsmanship proved him the master of any other Santraeger soldier – proven during deeds which saved many of their lives.
The old man was stoney faced. Only his eyes twinkled, before he turned.”Come, m’lord. We have a long journey before Suldaskar.”
Mother adjusted my collar, her green eyes narrowing in concentration, ensuring it sat just so. She always had a good eye for detail.
“I remember when I waited in that garden for your father, for the first time.” She said, as she adjusted the white-gold brooch over my heart, formed as it was into a wheatsheaf, representing her family, the Deshar.
“I was curious about what he would be like, now we would finally get to speak alone, not at a tournament or ball.” Her tone was instructional, almost distracted; her primary goal was ensuring I was presentable. Unnecessarily, I thought.
“He strode in with purpose. His manner as much as if he went to battle, or to pay fealty to the Duke.” For a moment, her smile came. It was wry, sardonic, as she fussed over a stray thread of lint.
“I rather liked it. Here was a man who took his duties seriously, even marriage alliance between families. I decided he would do, and met his gaze.”
Another wry smile, fed by her knowledge of her youthful beauty. “It was only then that he became nervous.”
I sighed in dismay. “Mother, need I know of how my father courted you?”
Mida Deshar stood back and looked at her son. Her eyes were cold; they almost always were, though. “Your father had no mother to warn him of how to be.” A sharpness in her tongue, born of frustration. It was true, though; my grandmother had died while my father was still young. Explaining perhaps both the closeness between my father and his brother, and my grandfather’s apparently legendary reputation with the women of Suldaskar.
“You remember the poem?” She asked. “Yes.” I replied, petulantly. Every soft word, I thought in distaste.
Mother nodded. “Good.” She fussed with my collar one last time.
“Remember, you stand for your family lines today, you reflect on them. Be mindful of that.” A reminder, at that moment, of the political and financial ties that my marriage to Perenda Sarneh would bring.
Mother reached up, and placed her hands on either side of my neck, her graceful thumbs on my cheek. She looked up at me, her gaze fixing mine. “The first impression matters. Show yourself as dutiful, honourable, and respectful of your family and hers. Love comes later, but this meeting is the foundation it is built on.”
She smiled again then, without the wryness; instead it was small, but genuine. Some of the coldness in her eyes was forced out, giving way to pride. I suppose she was happy with what she saw. I would reflect well on her.
Or it was just that, before my reckless heart was revealed, she loved me.
“Go.” She said. “You should not be late.”
And I went, leaving the solar and heading down the stairs, and along the little corridor that led to the walled garden where we took our meals in summer; and where I was to formally court Count Sarneh’s daughter.
Without warning, wiry arms dragged me into an alcove. I saw dark eyes burning at me in the shadows, dark eyes filled with anger and fear. Our lips met in an urgent and stolen kiss.
“Remember.” Reena whispered.
“I promised.” I replied, staining my honour. I did believe I meant it.
We kissed again. My heart raced from the danger of it, I thought at the time. Looking back, it was a cry of freedom, a rebuke of tradition. My one act of rebellion while my hands grew more bloody in familial duty.
What sin, that Reena was to bear the burden of my doubts, not me.
I stepped back. Our eyes held each others for a moment. Then I looked down the corridor, towards the garden. And turned to go.
Through the doors the garden was in bloom, the scent of jasmine heavy in the air. In the evening gloom I could see a woman stood by the vine-clad bower, staring into the pond. She wore white and silver, her blonde hair braided prettily, and held a pink flower in one hand. She smiled wistfully as some fish emerged from the depths to devour an evening insect.
I imagine most would consider her quite beautiful in that moment.
My mouth burned. I felt the ground beneath me as sand.
Yet as in battle, when fear begins to grip one’s heart, one can always look to duty in adversity.
