III. Cerenid
Procession
The host of Gruen plodded southward in a long, mournful procession that stretched near a mile on the old Fywater road. To their left brooded the murky forest, her shadows alive with bird calls and the faint rustling of creatures meek and monstrous. To their right flowed the Fywater, no longer wide and shallow, coursing gently in the open sward of Briganta, but a stony, swirling torrent, an ever-narrowing fermentation tumbling from the highlands. Veiled by the towering wall of evergreens, the foothills unfolded, climbing southwards into the great white peaks beyond.
Near the head of the column creaked the wagon bearing the remains of Ceryd Rex, tightly bound in canvas and wrapped in the banner of Gruen. Cerenid rode behind, silent and grim, while those who rode beside him spoke in hushed laments of “Such a brief rein” and “What a fine rex he would have made.”
Upon the third eve of their slow march, they came upon the village of Wargsdale, which was an arrangement of humble huts and a wood longhouse that served alike as great hall and temple. Within the longhouse they placed the remains of Ceryd and pitched their tents upon the green to take their rest for the evening. Ceryd’s remains were ever guarded, and his face was uncovered so that villagers were permitted to gather to look upon it and mourn as custom bade.
Ceryd, once radiant with youthful command, had become pale and blue about the lips and hollow at the eyes. The villagers filed past to view him with bowed heads, murmuring prayers and fragments of old chants.
O One whose spirit fills each soul,
Guide the dead to River Thol.
Before they drink to cleanse their past…
…Their die of fate be fairly cast.
Cerenid took no meal, nor did he remain long in vigil of his beloved brother. With naught but a nod to his guard, he retired early to the solitude of his tent. But deep in the night he was awoken by the clamor of shouting and the pounding of frantic footfalls. Bursting into the chill air, he beheld flames flickering through the windows of the long house and smoke wisping through its thatch roof against the backdrop of the fire glow. His first thought was of his brother, who lay in state within, and townsfolk attempting to brave the flames to retrieve his remains.
Villagers swarmed about, rushing to and from the well with sloshing buckets, crying out in despair and dread lest their hall be consumed. Cerenid remained at the threshold of his tent, transfixed by the roar and whirl of flame, the glow upon the sweating faces, the heat that rolled across the village green like a boiling wave.
As his gaze followed the figures darting to the well, their path caused him to notice his guard was not at his post and had joined in the desperate commotion. A heartbeat later, he spotted Una emerging from the flames’ glow, approaching, treading with haste, two Blodwins of arms on either side, their flowing cloaks scorched by flame, both drawing their blades.
Fearing their purpose, he stepped back by instinct. But just as he did, a hand clamped hard upon his neck. A dark figure loomed at his flank with a blade already poised to plunge between his ribs.
“Put down your dagger, fool!” Una shouted, her crisp pitch cutting through the din of chaos.
Startled by her command, the would-be assassin twisted to flee, but instead, his face met the weight of a hammer blow, crushing his nose and knocking him to the dirt, blinded and gasping. The Blodwin guards pounced, beating him soundly with mailed fists and booted heels until he lay bloodied and groaning.
“Stand him up,” Una commanded. The assassin was hauled upright between them, swaying like a broken reed. Cerenid watched, frozen by confusion as Una peered into the assassin’s broken face, searching through her memory. Frowning, she took his hand and examined his ring.
“I know thee,” she observed. “Thou art Kaldwin Fy, seventh son of Reik Korbin.” Her voice twisted into scorn. “Are there so few men of talent left in Fywold that your father must must hazard his own brood upon murder?”
Kaldwin answered not, feigning the stupor of a man half-senseless, though his eyes flickered with panicked wit.
From behind came pounding hoofbeats. Three riders approached, each clad in the deep blue capes in the custom of House Fy. “Unhand him,” barked the foremost. “Deliver unto us the rex, and ye shall live.”
Una laughed with mocking disdain. “Ye shall let me live? Know ye not who I am?”
“We heed no wenches nor weavers,” the rider spat. “Stand aside, woman.”
“Una’s voice dropped to a cool, deadly calm. “Take heed of thy tongue, inbreeder. I am Una, daughter of Mendo, Reik of Dregrove.”
The riders stiffened, though their weapons did not lower. “It matters not,” another snarled. “We came for Cleon’s son, not for thee.” Then another rider spoke, “You should rejoice in our finishing the job your brother started. Hand him over or be cut down.”
Una stepped forward, eyes as ruthless as a dragon’s, reflecting the dancing flames. “Perhaps thou wilt cut me down ere thy blade find the rex. But hear this: should aught befall either of us, House Fy shall have enemies on two borders.”
She gestured to the groaning Kaldwin. “If this witless whelp is the best thy house can muster, I would not wager a single copper that ye last beyond the coming winter. My brother Madrot, hardened like steel by lies, is soon to be the reik to your west. If I fail to return, he shall know the hand that felled me. And my sister, left without a son or heir, would become reikia to your east. Together, they will come down upon Fywold, cut down your house root and branch, fire your town, and salt your fields so nothing living returns.”
A silence followed, broken only by the roar of flames and the cries of villagers dousing the longhouse roof which had caught fire. The riders remained in their saddles, staring, silent.
“Choose thy fate!” Una demanded, drawing her knife.
The Fy riders conferred in harsh whispers, their faces like muddy wights in the glow. At last, the leader jerked his chin. “Kaldwin, come!”
The wounded assassin, nose flattened and bent askew and bleeding, stumbled forward. A rider hauled him up behind his saddle. And with a final glare of thwarted malice, they wheeled their mounts and vanished into the night.
Una sheathed her blade with a weary exhale. “Nephew,” she said softly, “thou must take greater care. The shadow of your father’s deeds follow thee still. And it is yet many leagues to Gruen.”
Return
From her window overlooking the gate, Regent Fia beheld their coming upon the road. She searched for Ceryd among the host, his flaxen hair, his flowing cape, his stern expression, riding high and noble on his mount. Finding him not, she turned and hastened down, clinging to the vain hope that her firstborn was merely delayed.
The old hardwood gates of Gruen creaked open, and the procession from Briganta, by way of Wargsdale, passed through in solemn tread, led by a great black draft horse pulling a wagon. Behind it rode Una and Cerenid, side by side, wan and weary from the long road, their countenances carved in ash and grief. The stopped within Gruen’s walls.
When Fia came upon them, one glance upon their countenances dashed hope to ruin. Stepping to the wagon, unsteadied by shock, she climbed onto it with the aid of a footman. With a trembling hand she pulled back the banner covering a pine box.
“Open it!” she commanded.
The footman bowed. “My Lady, I must warn—”
“I said open it!”
Neither Cerenid nor Una intervened, their faces relinquished to the storm of a mother’s grief.
With a groan of nails and crack of splinters, the footman pried the lid loose and slid it aside. Fia stood firm, looking down upon the remains of her beloved son, seeing only a pile of blackened bones and a skull, finding her champion humbled in fleshless expression. She gasped, then wept in a full flood. Her beautiful child, the wellspring of her pride, the product of her youth, the only goodness to spring from her union with Cleon— the heart of Gruen’s future no longer beat. All hope was extinguished. Though his nature was closer to that of his father’s, in his living face she saw her own. She loved him most between her sons, for only his strength and decisiveness could calm her worry. Now, before her eyes, his noble visage was reduced to a silent shriek of eternal desperation.
Fia descended from the wagon, her limbs unsure and weak. Una dismounted to help her, and there upon the cobbles they embraced with long faces, grief entwined as kin and fate.
The remains of Ceryd Rex were carefully set into a proper coffin and placed on the altar of the temple, remaining there for seven days. Candles burned at every hour and chants echoed through the vaulted hall. On the seventh day he was carried by six sworn men into the catacombs beneath the keep, and there, interred beside the reiks of old.
The golden crown of Methundor Rex was placed by the high priestess upon Cerenid’s head, although it did rest upon his brow askew. And those who attended the crowning whispered: “May The One breathe fire into the pale brother.”
In the moments before his first counsel, Kethu, feeble and withered, was helped to Cerenid’s side at the long table by a servant, and the two sat alone in the antechamber, silent for some time. Then Sol moved through the sky, its rays, at last shone through the window, falling upon and brightening the old Aeonite’s countenance.
Seizing this, Cerenid asked, his voice low and uncertain, “what wouldst thou advise me, steward?”
Kethu pondered long, hands trembling with great age. At last, in a voice as thin and brittle as parchment he whispered, “Always beware the first who cometh making demands rather than offerings. For he hath loyalty neither to thee nor unto Gruen, but only unto himself.”
Soon after, the doors of the chamber swung wide and entered the Master of Coin. Then Captain Menek and Gedain, and after them, Olian with some lesser thegns and reeves. Fia came last, saying no word, acknowledging no man, taking her seat along the wall in cold silence. Absent was Una, her presence forbidden for her allegiance and standing in Dregrove, though Cerenid was not consulted on whether she should be allowed.
Olian took the seat opposing Cerenid, his back to Fia. Menek and Gedain sat on opposite sides of the rex. Throughout the council, Gedain spoke little, sitting with hands folded, eyes never straying far from Cerenid’s face. He watched him as a hawk might watch a rabbit. Once, when Cerenid faltered in speech, Gedain’s eyes glinted, though whether in contempt or calculation none who saw could say.
The matters of state were debated for hours, yet to Cerenid, each word sounded distant, as hollow as some foreign language uttered by haggling merchants. The treachery of the Fys was finally addressed.
“The Fys have never been loyal,” offered the reeve. “I say we finish what your father started, my lord.”
Cerenid nodded without raising his weary eyes, as if it was a mere reflex.
“We have numbers, my lord,” Gedain suggested. “I would gladly lead the host.”
Olian turned to Cerenid, watching for his agreement. Yet no word came. The room fell silent waiting for the rex to speak, but no words came to him.
Kethu coughed as he sputtered back to presence. “The rex tired. Let him rest. We’ll take up this matter tomorrow.”
The council was adjourned. Fia departed first, yet silent, still stricken. The others followed, all save Olian, who lingered until only he and Kethu, fading in his chair, remained with the young rex. Olian stepped close, lowering his voice to a fierce whisper. “My Lord, we must act ere Mendo passes and Madrot becomes reik. Grant me a dozen riders and we shall fall upon him in Dregrove and finish what justice hath not.”
Cerenid frowned, eyes yet lowered.
“My lord?” Olian pressed.
Finally, Cerenid spoke. “Was justice not already rendered?” Would you have my brother’s death be for nought?”
“Nay, my Lord.” Olian’s face flushed deep with vehemence. “That was no justice, but rather a Blodwin contrivance that slew your brother.” His voice raised. “I seek vengeance upon them… for your brother… and to restore the honour of Gruen.” His fist struck the table, making the cups rattle, stirring Kethu awake.
“I will ponder it,” Cerenid answered, almost meekly.
“Yes, my Lord. Ponder it. Yet heed carefully the counsel thou keepest.”
Cerenid raised his eyes to meet Olian’s. “You refer to my aunt?”
Olian’s eyes flashed. “Aye, Una. Though she appears prudent and measured, her loyalty bends to Dregrove, not to Gruen.”
Cerenid straightened and drew a breath. “I assure you I shall ponder it faithfully,” he replied firmly.
Olian probed Cerenid’s eyes for a hint of his leaning. Not finding what he was searching for, he bowed stiffly and withdrew. When the chamber door closed and the footsteps faded, Kethu stirred in his chair and muttered:
“When the door is unlocked, the knaves show their faces.” Then he drifted back into a wheezy sleep.
Hunt
Late in the month of Goldwane, when the last of the leaves clung brown and brittle, and the breath of man and horse smoked pale upon the air, Cerenid rode forth from Gruen with Olian, Gedain and Menek and their squires. A storm was gathering in the north, its grey belly rolling slow like a tide whose shore was formed the high Norzcarpe. This would be the final hunt ere winter laid its bitter snows upon Methundor.
They pursued a great stag that had been seen for many days, foraging in the cedar woods beyond the river. It was an old beast, deep brown and broad of chest, crowned with vast antlers like the branches of a long dead oak. Men said he had survived six winters of chase by hunters and wolves alike, and that no common lord should claim him lest ill fortune come upon him. Thus Menek, Cerenid’s captain guard, declared it fitting quarry for the young rex.
The company rode beneath the distant light of Sol, through woods of black pine and ghostly birch, the frost silvering the roots and dry grass. The hounds worked ahead, their noses low, while Menek searched for sign. Cerenid rode among them with his longbow strung across his saddle. His hands fumbled often with the quiver at his back, and more than once an arrow slipped loose and fell among the leaves.
Gedain smirked, though he tried to hide it. Olian saw it too, and saw also that none offered aid to the noble. Thus, he rode aside Cerenid.
“Here,” Olian said, “let me show you how the quiver ought to be turned for ease of draw.”
Cerenid responded humbly. “I know how to span a bow. It is my hands. They are cold.”
Rebuffed, Olian turned away, seeing Menek who shrugged faintly in response. Even the squires lowered their eyes. It was a small thing, yet Olian marked it— a rex ought not fumble like a child.
They found the first spoor near an freezing stream, ice clinging to the muddy ridges. Menek dismounted, knelt, and placed his gloved hand beside the hoof print. “Here he passed ere dawn,” he said. “See the depth— he is heavy, old, and proud. He runs alone.”
Gedain smiled. “As every rex should runneth.”
Cerenid gave no answer.
They pressed deeper into the wood, and as they rode Gedain fell back aside with Olian and Cerenid. He turned to the rex in his saddle. “What meanest thou to do with thy Nundi prisoner… my lord?”
Olian spat into the brush as they rode. “What should be done, methinks. Hang him high and let the crows learn his name… my lord.”
“Aye,” answered Gedain. “Though I beg thee hold hum until Frostwane, so that the spectacle of a dangling southerner might crown the week of my wedding feast.”
Olian grunted approval. They rode several strides awaiting the rex’s reply. But at last, Cerenid only shook his head.
“No,” he said, as if he feared to say it. “He shall remain in the dungeon to serve his sentence.”
The woods seemed to grow quieter. Then Gedain laughed once, short and sharp.
“No hanging for a spy?”
“No,” Cerenid answered. “No death sentence for merely crossing a border.” His words came as if he might yet convince them of the justice of it. “If he be an envoy, we would be murdering a messenger. And if he be a spy, prison will loosen his tongue with time. Justice should not be confused with appetite.”
Gedain’s face hardened. “Thou soundest like Kethu, now. Are those thy words or his?
“Thou knowest Kethu is also a southerner,” Kethu added. “His thoughts on this are clouded by his loyalty to kin.”
“I would never dare to question Kethu’s loyalty,” Cerenid said. “Others, perhaps.”
“Mercy toward wolves is cruelty toward sheep,” Olian huffed.
Cerenid’s voice remained calm. “And cruelty mistaken for strength is still cruelty.”
No man answered. Even the dogs seemed hushed.
They rode on in silence, but within Olian, something old and bitter stirred. First Madrot was not pursued. Now this. Always softness in the boy rex where iron was needed.
Ahead, Menek suddenly raised a hand. Silence fell. All halted. He pointed. There, through the black trunks and pale mist, stood the great stag, rooting for the last shoots of autumn. He was magnificent— vast of body, winter-thick in hide, his antlers spread like a regal crown. He stood upon a rise above them, proud and still, as though he himself judged the hunters.
Menek turned and whispered. “My lord, come forth. Take the first shot.”
Cerenid dismounted with his longbow, all eyes upon him.
He stepped slowly through the brush, bow in hand, each breath clouding before him. He drew an arrow, nocked it, and raised the bow. The stag lifted its head. For a long moment neither moved. Cerenid held the draw, his arms trembling under the strain. The stag remained. Then something changed in his face. He lowered the bow. The beauty of the creature had stayed his hand.
Olian felt his jaw tighten. Then a hiss. An arrow flashed past Cerenid’s shoulder and struck the stag behind the foreleg. The great beast gave a leap and bounded into the trees. Cerenid turned. It was Gedain who had loosed. Before he could protest Menek shouted.
“Ride!”
The hunt exploded into motion. Hooves thundered over root and stone. Hounds howled and bounded. Branches lashed at cloaks and faces. Ahead, the wounded stag crashed through the forest, leaving blood bright upon the pale trunks of birch and flaxen grass.
Cerenid mounted late and followed, but the others were already far ahead. By the time he caught them, the beast lay fallen in a clearing of dead grass, its legs thrashing weakly. It’s dark eyes glistening with terror. Gedain stood above it, one knee in the mud, driving his hunting blade down through the ribs and into the heart. The stag shuddered once, then was still.
Steam rose from the wound. Cerenid stood silent. Gedain looked up, hands red to the wrist.
“A clean death.”
With practiced hands he opened the belly and drew forth the steaming entrails, laying them upon the frost. Menek stepped forward with a silver cup from his saddlebag. He knelt, filled it with the beast’s dark blood. He rose and offered it to Cerenid.
“Your first kill, my lord. Drink.”
Cerenid stared at the cup. The blood steamed in the cold air. All eyes fell upon him. He reached forth, then withdrew his hand and shook his head.
“It was not my kill.”
Menek looked to Gedain. Gedain took the cup instead and drank deep, the red staining his lips. He handed it back with a sinister, crimson smile.
“The beast careth little whose arrow found him first,” Gedain said. “Laughter followed from Olian and Menek. Cerenid forced a hollowchuckle.
They dressed the stag and bound it for the ride home. By then the sky had darkened fully and the bitter air carried the smell of snow.
Olian rode just behind them, watching. Ahead rode Cerenid— quiet, uncertain, slight in his saddle, looking more a priest than a ruler. Beside him rode Gedain— broad-shouldered, blood-marked. Undaunted. He was admired without effort, with all men speaking to him as though he were already something greater. And in that long ride beneath the coming storm, Olian felt a certainty consume him like a bitter gale. A rex who could not kill would one day fail to defend. Cerenid was too weak to rule. Worse even, he mistook weakness for virtue. Such a rex would surely lead Methundor into ruin. The vultures would soon come to circle.
Olian’s thoughts turned to Avarlon— no justice for her suffering. Then to Madrot, free, his ugly face filled with mocking laughter. Then to the Nundi spy, in chains and yet breathing. And to Kethu, whispering patience while rot spread beneath the floorboards of the realm.
No, he thought. This softness would destroy them all.
His eyes found Gedain riding ahead, and for the first time he did not see merely youthful vanity courting his daughter. He saw a stronger hand for the crown. And there, beneath the blackening sky, with the vultures overhead and winter marching down, Olian decided what he must do.
Vows
The bells would soon begin their summons, and the sept would stir like a hive before swarming. Garlands of ivy and hawthorn were strewn along the beams with white bunting and threads of gold. Files of unlit candles guarded the walls and dais of the otherwise empty hall. Outside, the Rainmere Sol shone cold yet bright, and the bitter winds did gust and whip as winter clung to its final days.
Olian stood in the antechamber adjoining the temple, hands clasped behind his back, jaw grinding as though upon unseen bone. Gedain leaned upon the narrow windowsill, peering through the cloudy glass, his wedding cloak draped upon a chair.
“Tonight,” Olian said low, “or never.”
Gedain nodded faintly. “The guards who matter are with us— Menek, Joles. The rex will dine and drink, then, when he withdraws… I pray he goes swiftly.”
“He will.” Olian paced. “He’s weak. A boy. Such men die easy. Think of it as an act of mercy… mercy for Gruen, for Methundor.”
“There will be chaos…”
“For a fortnight, perhaps. Until the council selects a steward.”
“Dost thou think Fia will leave?” Gedain asked.
“For Dregrove? The council will insist— For her safety, of course, until the conspirators are found, which, of course, they never shall be.”
Gedain stiffened, raising a hand to still Olian’s tongue. He reached for his hilt, then stepped silently to the door. Wrenching it open with sudden force, he burst through, snatching the spy listening just beyond.
“Avarlon!” Olian exclaimed. “Why art thou here?”
Avarlon stood frozen in the doorway, Gedain’s hand clutching her arm, her other hand clutching the ribbon meant for her hair. Her face had gone pale as milk. She stepped forward, her voice thin but steady. “What speak ye of?”
Olian’s expression smoothed. “Daughter, thou shouldst not wander here.”
“We were discussing matters of guard and station,” Gedain explained. “The realm is restless. Thy father frets.”
“Do not lie to me,” Avarlon said. Silence fell. “I heard talk of dying easy and— ”
Olian laughed once, sharply. “Idle speech. Soldiers’ tongues run loose ere ceremony.”
“We spoke of possible dangers,” Gedain added quickly. “Of villains… of Madrot.”
Then something broke at the sound of that name.
“No,” Avarlon whispered. Then she spoke louder. “No more.” They stared as she tried to pull away from Gedain’s grip, her body trembling. “I will not be party to this. I have borne enough blood upon my soul.”
Olian’s brow furrowed. Her eyes filled, yet she did not weep. “I must confess. I can no longer bear the weight upon my conscience.
“What art thou speaking?” Olian asked.
“I… I must tell the truth. No more lies. I lied to thee, father.”
“What didst thou lie, my child?”
“No!” Gedain implored, tightening his grip on Avarlon’s arm, pushing his fingers deep.
“I lied about that night last summer.” She took a long breath. “I was ashamed. I did not know one lie would come to this. Father, Madrot did not force me. He never touched me. He is innocent.”
The words rang like the great iron bell of the sept. Olian staggered as though struck. “No… No, I don’t believe you. Why speak of this now?”
“Avarlon… silence!” Gedain ordered.
“I did lie, father,” she said again. “I lied out of fear. Out of shame. I was with Gedain that night in the stable, not Madrot.”
Gedain’s face drained of color. He opened his mouth to speak but held his tongue.
“It is the truth,” she answered, “Gedain cannot deny it. I lay in the stable with him. And when thou questioned me, I chose the easier sin… to shield him.”
Gedain’s jaw tightened. “Enough!”
“No,” she said fiercely, wrenching her arm free from his grip. “Ceryd died for my sin, my cowardice. I will not let another brother die in silence.”
Olian clenched his fists. “Knowest thou what thou hast done?”
“Yes, I know father. I shall bear it all my days,” she said softly. “But I will not allow further harm.”
For a long moment, silence. Gedain stared at Avarlon. Avarlon stared at her father. Olian stared at the stones of the floor. Beyond the walls, the bells began their peal.
At last Gedain spoke. “She is overwrought. I’ll take her to the south wing. Guarded, she shall say nothing more before the ceremony.”
Olian did not look up from the floor. Avarlon gazed between them, horror dawning in her eyes as she settled on her groom. “You would silence your wife?”
“I would spare thee,” Gedain said firmly. Then he led her away.
#
The chapel filled. The candles flared. Voices rose in chorus. Yet Olian stood rigid beside the altar, sweat cooling upon his spine, eyes seeing nothing, staring into oblivion. The words of the priest washed over him unheard. The ravens gathered in the high bell tower, their voices croaked doom while their talons scratched at stone. Olian’s empty gaze strayed to the high seat, where the boy Cerenid Rex sat. Pale beneath the tilted crown that still seemed too heavy for him despite the passing of a full season. For the first time since mid-winter, when the plot was sworn, Olian felt his grip unbalanced, for he had risked everything, and the two people nearest to him, his daughter and his would-be son in law had lied to him. The heat of rage and desperation flamed within.
Reception
After the feast, the libations flowed like a fountain, and the music filled all ears with drums and the drone of a crank-fiddle, and humming melodies. The reception began to boil into revelry, laughter drowning the conversations. Maidens locked arms and spun, twirling in rhythm, and the lads tested sinew and pride at arm wrestling. Warriors drank deep and boasted loud, and old men sat and watched, reliving their youth through the antics of the young.
At the high table sat the bride and groom, Avarlon and Gedain. But her countenance was troubled and grim. Gedain feigned a continuous grin, false happiness betrayed by his cold, measuring cast of eye. He nudged Avarlon to appear happy, yet she obliged him only for a heartbeat, her face swiftly dissolving back into dread.
Also seated was Cerenid Rex, and his mother Fia, and at the table’s end, his aunt Una Blodwin. The father of the bride, widower Olian, watched as Cerenid clapped along to the rhythm of the song, stopping only to take sips from his silver chalice. Behind the rex stood Menek, his guard’s captain. Olian’s eyes met Menek’s. Menek nodded faintly without turning. Olian scanned back over the room, far to the opposite end, to the doors of the hall. There stood two more guards, emotionless, frozen.
The song changed and amidst the turn, a dancing maiden collided with a servant, causing her to drop her cask. Red wine burst onto a table, splashing a seated thegn, spoiling his tunic and cape. The thegn leapt up with a volley of curses, but the din swallowed his rage.
Olian felt a hand clasp his shoulder. He turned. It was Gedain. He acknowledged him with a nod, then glanced at Avarlon, then back to Gedain again.
Gedain leaned close and murmured, “I’ve spoken to her at length. There is no need to worry. She will be fine.”
“Then bid her to brighten her countenance,” Olian replied, funneling the words to Gedain’s ear. “She looks as though she’s attending a funeral rather than her wedding.”
“I shall soften her with more wine.” Gedain nodded and returned to his seat.
Olian looked again over his shoulder, but Menek was now gone. He then turned to the doors across the hall. The faces of the two guards had changed. He felt droplets of sweat beading upon his brow. He rubbed his neck. He looked at Gedain who was laughing at the thegn who was still tongue-lashing the clumsy servant.
He glanced at Cerenid, his vulnerable, naive face unaware of what fate crept towards him. In his mind, Olian saw the blade driven between the boy’s ribs, his body crumpling. Then he envisaged the future beyond: Fia imprisoned, Una hauled away under guard, Kethu suffocated by a pillow, Menek seated as steward until Gedain could be named rex.
But then his thoughts began to cascade.
Shall I do this?
…Yes, of course. It is already in motion.
What if I am caught? They will saw me for treason!
…Menek will not fail.
But what if he does fail?
…He won’t.
But is this the only way? Perhaps the boy will stiffen with age.
…The realm cannot afford to take that chance.
But am I a murderer? Can I live with myself after?
…Only you can answer that.
Within his thoughts, he saw a future where Gedain was rex and his daughter rexia, gleaming crowns set upon their heads, holding hands beneath rose petal rain, between them, his grandson prince with fair hair. Yet the luster soon became clouded, for he then saw Cerenid, the boy, holding his wound, blood leaking out, gasping for air, begging him to know “why?” as he lay dying. He saw the funeral and the eyes of suspicion upon him. Fia— the mother’s hatred. He saw himself made ugly by torment, immersed in drink to dull it, hiding himself from the eyes of accusation…
No! I cannot do this. I am not a killer nor a traitor. Find Menek, call it off.
…But where is he? Will he reach his assassin in time?
I must Think.
…Look! The rex prepares to leave. There’s no time!
He drained his goblet, then wiped the sweat from his brow. The music blared. The crank-fiddle droned. He rubbed his temples. The drums pounded. The maidens twirled. Gedain laughed. Olian looked upon his daughter— yet unmoving, so fair, yet blank of face, unblinking, as if she were carved in stone…
“Enough,” he muttered to himself. He pushed back from the high table, proceeding past Cerenid toward the edge where Una and Fia sat. She noticed him coming, her eyes following him as he approached.
“I must speak with thee,” he said.
“So speak.”
“In private.”
Her gaze sharpened.
“Concerning what?”
“Concerning a matter most grave.”
Una rose from the table, and together they descended from the dais into the churn of the hall. Gedain’s laughing ended when he saw them together, yet he dared not move from his perch and draw eyes upon himself conspiring with them. They passed into an antechamber where Olian shut the door, the muffled music droning on beyond.
“What is it?” Una asked.
“I… I have come by knowledge that imperils the rex.”
“Then speak to the rex.”
“I fear he would not grasp its weight.”
“Why are you telling me?”
Olian paused to listen at the door, then continued. “Because thou hast proved thy fealty by risking thy life for him. He trusts thee without question.”
Una’s voice cooled. “What is happening, Olian?”
“My lady, I have reason to believe there be a plot against the rex.”
“By whom?”
“There is no time,” Olian pressed. “Only this: I believe the danger comes from within the vanguard. I must intervene, but until I know for certain, we cannot risk him unguarded. Canst thou place thy men with him when he leaves the hall?”
She studied him, eyes narrowing. “How would you come to know all this, Olian?”
“Just… will you have your guards attend to him… please? There’s no time to explain.”
“Of course,” she answered with lowered voice.
Olian opened the door and left the antechamber and then the hall in haste, slipping out into the streets in search of Menek. He dared not to call his name aloud nor ask after him, lest suspicion fall upon himself. He searched one alley, then another, then peered into a tavern thick with smoke and voices. Yet Menek was nowhere to be found.
Returning to the street he saw four of Una’s men leave the hall and take separate positions, blending into the shadows so they would not be conspicuous. Olian searched the next alley, and then the next. It was vain. Menek could be anywhere, biding his time, awaiting the signal from his co-conspirators. At last, Olian returned to the hall, lest his absence be marked.
He saw Gedain’s eyes locked on to him as he re-entered through the doors, following him as he retook his seat.
“What art thou doing… sir?” he demanded.
“Ask nothing more,” Olian answered. “Do not speak to anyone of the plan, no matter what comes this evening.”
Moments later, Cerenid Rex stood, yet the hall took no immediate notice. Seeing their disregard, Olian seized the moment to buy Una time, striking his cup and calling aloud in his booming voice, “Be still! The rex would make a toast!” At last, the hall fell silent.
Cerenid stood, in his uncertain manner, his cup held too tight in his grasp. Curling within himself with narrowing shoulders. He cleared his throat and began.
“I… I will not keep ye long,” he said. “I am yet no orator, nor have I yet learned the weight of speaking as rex.” He cleared his throat.
“I drink first to Gedain and to Avarlon. May thy union be stronger than the tempests that trouble this realm, and may thy hearth know warmth longer than sorrow.”
He paused, searching for words, then went on.
“We walk a road whose length is… is hidden from us. Some are granted many leagues upon it. And then others are called aside without warning… I have learned this… sooner than some.”
His voice steadied. His posture stiffened.
“But when thy journey ends, and thy spirit passeth through the Gate of Tartarus[i] and cometh unto the River Thol, may we all enter our next life with our honour unbroken.”
He raised his cup, and his voice filled the room.
“I drink to love, to duty, and to the road, however short or long it be.”
…And every lord and lady then clinked their goblets and cups, and drank, and shouted, “By The One!” And Cerenid Rex smiled with a nod and then departed the hall, greeted by Una and two of her sergeants at the door.
Plot
Joles was a brawny man of cruel visage. Hi sparse grey hair was closely cropped. His right cheek bore the scar of an arrow that near ended him, the red flesh there deeply furrowed. His arms were scored with tattoos of thorny vines and bones, and skulls. Once he had been a petty bandit, working alone upon Fywater Road, preying on pilgrims too frail to resist. It was there when Menek first espied him, crouched in bracken, measuring his ambush. Joles had ever preferred weaker quarry than guardsmen, and so he let Menek pass. But Menek did not pass, instead calling him forth and offering Joles honest work. In time, Joles became Captain Menek’s chief enforcer, carrying out the nefarious orders passed down from Cleon Rex.
But that first meeting was twenty years past, and Joles, now balding and losing his teeth, knew that his days in the court would soon be ending. The boy rex seemed to have no appetite for midnight justice, and Joles was too ugly for the court or to parade with the high guard, and too old to return to banditry. Yet should Menek rise to steward, his trade and proper life might endure for a few more years. And so Joles was quite willing to trade honor for prosperity.
Joles now sat alone, hiding out within a stable, pondering this change of life with the musk of old straw upon the air. At last he fell asleep, dozing until a hand finally shook him awake.
“He is unguarded,” whispered the voice in the shadows before darting off into the night.
Joles leapt up at once, brushing the straw off his vest, fingers finding the blade at his waist. He hurried out the door and into the street, the way marked by glow beaming from windows and cobblestones lit by moonlight.
As he followed the cobbles toward the keep, his thoughts turned unbidden to old reckonings. How many have I slain? Twenty? No, twenty-four. He tried to name them all as he walked but their faces blurred and names eluded beyond fifteen. But how many had been young men, mere boys like Cerenid? He recalled none.
Cerenid would be easy prey, he thought. The rex was thin and unhardened by trial. If death wasn’t quick, there would be pleas for mercy. But no quarter would be given. Twas Menek who buttered Joles’s bread, not the rex. It was Menek alone to whom he was loyal.
He entered the keep without haste, and the posted guards scarce lifted their gaze. Such was the privilege of long service, that a known man moved freely where strangers would be halted. He noted their names in his memory. They would be dealt with later. The courtyard glimmered in torchlight, her pathways abandoned at the late hour. Joles kept to the shadows along the wall, his pace measured, his breath slow and sure. He had done this many times.
He moved in silence through the garden, swallowed by budding hedges and clipped yews. The fountains murmured softly in the shadows. Somewhere, a drunkard’s singing carried upon the air from beyond the garden wall. But his only witness, save for the doomed guards, was the silhouette of an owl perched on a near branch, slowly turning its head to follow him along the dark path.
Joles crossed the garden unopposed. He reached the inner stair where a guard should have stood but he found only the brazier, its coals burning low. He set his foot upon the first step, paused, felt for his blade, then began the ascent.
The stair wound upward, to his right, in a narrow turn, the stone worn smooth by centuries of passage. He steadied his breathing, climbing slowly in his soft soles so no echo might betray him. The air of the stairwell lay close and stale. Sconces flickered and his shadow danced on the tapestries hung slack upon the wall, their woven kings and battles gazing down in mute judgment as he passed. His fingers strayed again to his blade.
At the landing before the rex’s quarters, the corridor lay utterly still.
No voices.
No sentry.
No light save what bled thinly from the stairwell behind.
He halted there a moment, tightening his hand upon the haft of his knife. He listened long for human voices, for breath, for footfall, for the faintest stir. It was as though the keep itself had drawn a breath and chosen not to cry out. Hearing nothing, he advanced.
Lunge and be done? he pondered. Or slither in and end him quiet? One promised speed but possible alarm, the other patience but the peril of awakening. He chose the latter. He preferred to savor his work.
He carefully pressed his blade though the jamb of the door and lifted the brace behind that barred it. Knowing its weight and balance by feel, he raised the bar off the hook. Holding it with his knife, he eased the door in without the faintest creak. When opened far enough, he reached his free hand in and let the brace down without a sound. He was within.
The hearth lay cold and the chamber was lit only by starlight filtering through the window, but Joles knew his way through the room blind. Across stood the canopy of the rex’s bed, the muslin drawn down to thwart the coming season of flies and night worms. Within its cocoon lay the figure of the rex, turned to the window and back to the door. Hand on blade, the assassin listened, hearing the: slow deliberate breaths of sleep. He crept forward, knife drawn. A faint creak on the floor. He halted. Another silent, careful step. Then another. He reached out to part the curtain. He raised the blade—
And then a force of iron swung into his knee, knocking him to the floor. Hands grabbed his arm and tore loose his blade. Fists rained upon his mouth and ears and face. Boots belted him in his ribs.
They dragged him out of the chamber and into the corridor— three men bearing him, one pressing steel to his throat. New lantern glow filled the stairwell. Two men cloaked in Dregrove colors appeared. Una followed behind them. She halted before Joles, peering upwards into his bloodied face. Defiance, therein, guttered and died, replaced by naked fear.
“Thy plot hath failed, Joles,” she said.
He spat blood. “But not thine, it seems. Have the Blodwins taken Gruen, now?”
“Take him below.”
#
That same night, Cerenid sat beside Kethu in his dim chamber, which the old Aeonite had not left for many weeks. Kethu’s face was pale like linen, and his hair had thinned to mere wisps. His blue-veined, arthritic hands trembled without cease.
“Teacher,” the young rex said softly. “A plot against me was thwarted by Una. Tell me, what is thy counsel?” The rex leaned close to hear Kethu’s faint reply.
Kethu’s eyes stirred, fixing upon Cerenid with a clear gaze, hands yet trembling. “Thou must uncover all who had hand in this,” he whispered. “Joles would not have dared this alone. There is no profit for him in acting alone. His hand was guided.” Kethu paused to draw breath. “Thou must flush the conspirators forth, all of them, or they shall come for thee again and again.”
Sentence
Joles sat with back to cold stone, facing a heavy wooden door. A thin bed of mold-rank straw lay beneath him. Set within the door, a high slot at eye-level for a man of guard height, and another a low square one, just large enough to pass in a pot of foul pottage— or draw out one fouler still. From these two portals leaked the cell’s only dull light, and with it the reek of sour air. Joles kept his face within the meagre beam, lest his sight fade wholly into blindness.
There was sparse measure of time in that pit. The guards spoke no words; their presence known only by the jangle of their keys, the clatter of iron, and the thunder of their fists pounding on doors. The dung-wretches, prisoners spared the depths for base labor, beaten for speaking, came and went in silence, exchanging vessels of sustenance for vessels of filth. At intervals came sudden cries, rupturing the inhuman silence. And always there was the buzz of flies and the scurrying of hidden rats and the scent of rot.
At last, the fists pounded upon Joles’s door. The eye slot darkened. Keys jangled. The lock clinked. The door swung open, and three guards gestured him forth. Joles hauled himself upright, struggled to his feet and stepped forward from the cell, submitting his wrists and ankles to iron.
They led him through the corridor, its torches burning with acrid pitch. Then through an iron gate and up a narrow stair, its stones worn into hollows by a century of shackled footfalls.
At the stairs’ crown, daylight reflected off the walls beyond and through the bars of the last gate. The sentry there unlocked it, and the guards escorted Joles through and down the wider corridor that brightened as it opened into a courtyard.
There stood the reeve with four more guards, two sworn to Gruen and two to Dregrove, standing beside a scaffold fashioned of two upright trunk posts and a cross member. Near it stood Una, flanked by Cerenid, Gedain, and Olian, who himself stood back. To the other side were three hooded figures. One held a hammer and the other two held a long broad saw with deep teeth.
The reeve spoke. “Joles of Peelgrain, thou wert taken in the act of high treason, of seeking the life of thy rex. By the old law, the penalty thereof is death by sawing torment.”
Joles’s shackles were struck away. His garments were stripped, and he was borne to the scaffold and laid upon his back, his limbs bound fast with leather thongs drawn through iron rings. With measured heaves, two guards hoisted him, suspending him inverted between the posts. Pine planks were then nailed into place at hip and flank, then again at chest and shoulder, until his body was held rigid and unmoving. The hooded men set their saw upon a notch upon the uppermost planks, resting the cold steel teeth on Joles’s privy flesh. They did not yet draw.
Una stepped forward. “By the law, sawing is the doom for any who raise hand against the crown. Upon the rex’s mark, the blade shall move.”
The reeve continued, his voice without mercy. “The blade is wrought for timber, not flesh. It doth not cut clean but rendeth. Thou shalt remain alive long, blood pooling in your head, leaving thy senses unbroken while cutting through your bones and tearing out your entrails. Hast thou aught to say before sentence is carried forth?”
Joles feigned bravery but his eyes betrayed the terror gnawing within. They darted from the warden to Una, finally fixing upon Cerenid.
“My lord,” he cried. “I beg thee for thy mercy.”
Cerenid answered, his voice firmer than in the days before. “I will grant thee mercy, the mercy of swift death.”
Joles shuddered.
“But thou must purchase it,” the rex added.
“My lord, I’ve told all I know, already.”
“We…,” the rex stopped to correct himself, “I want Menek. Where hath he fled?”
Joles steadied his breath, forcing calm. “He informed me he would wait for me by the spring beyond the south gate, where the road could be watched and he could escape if needed. I presume he rode away since no word reached him.”
“Rode away to where?”
Joles faltered.
Una raised her hand. “Proceed!”
The executioners tightened their grip on the saw handles, tensing as they prepared the first pull of the blade.
“Wait… wait, My lord!” Joles pleaded. “I… I know where he hath gone. Please. He spoke of it often, long before…”
“Speak!”
“To… to Varenthor, by way of the High Gate. He believed the pass lay open. He always swore he would sell his sword there if Gruen turned upon him. He spoke of it many times.”
“Proceed!” Una urged again.
“Wait,” Cerenid ordered with mercy— or some would say with weakness. “Take him down.”
The hooded guards pried the planks loose. The straps slackened. Joles sagged to the wooden floor of the scaffold. The guards shackled him and bore him away.
Cerenid turned to Gedain. “Take five riders,” he commanded. “Go by way of the High Gate to Varenthor. Find Menek. Bring him back, alive. I must know whose hands stain this plot.”
“Wilt thou givest me the key, my lord?” Gedain asked.
Cerenid pondered. “No. You have no need of it. If the High Gate is locked, Menek did not pass through. And if it is open, thou needeth no key.”
And what of Joles, My Lord?” Gedain asked.
Una’s eyes searched the rex’s countenance for strength. The rex glanced into hers and found it.
“If Menek is returned by the Rainmere new moon, I will have Joles beheaded. If Menek is not brought, Joles will be sawn.”
Mentor
Upon hearing word that the old Aeonite had wakened in clarity, Cerenid went at once to his chamber. He found Kethu propped upright amid his linens, his frame thin as a winter branch, his skin the color of sheep’s wool.
“Teacher,” said Cerenid softly, “thou art awake.”
“Indeed,” Kethu whispered with some effort, his voice no more than heavy breath. “The last bright flare before the wick is spent.”
“I am again in need of thy counsel… if thou art yet able to give it.”
“It is my charge,” Kethu said.
“Gedain has rode out this morn for the High Gate and Varenthor. I want to know if you believe he will find Menek.”
Kethu pondered. “I do think he shall.”
Cerenid clasped his teacher’s hand. “How am I to make Menek name his fellows?”
Kethu coughed, a dry and rattling sound. Then he was still a long while. At last he spoke. “Pain will surely loosen his tongue, yet I doubt truth will follow it. Torture breeds answers shaped to please the ear.” He groaned as he moved in his bed. “What Gedain brings back, or doesn’t, will speak truer than any rack or words.”
“Explain, teacher.”
Kethu caught his breath. “If he returns with his riders and no Menek, thou shalt learn little. But if he returns bearing Menek in chains, then Gedain clears himself of this design.”
“Do you suspect Gedain?”
“You must suspect all men, young rex. Such is the weight that leadens every crown. Yet I do not deem Gedain the mind that spun the web. There is a more subtle spider yet lurking.”
“Who do you believe it is?”
“Oh, the Fys, perchance. Or one nearer still.”
“Olian?” Cerenid offered. “He knew of it firsthand.”
“I will not seed thy thoughts with names. Once sown, they may blind thine eye that tends them.”
“And what if Gedain returns alone?”
Kethu’s gaze sharpened. “Then thou mayest believe his hand was in it. Yet if so, hide thy knowing. Keep him ever near. Men who believe themselves unseen grow careless, and in carelessness Gedain will reveal his master.”
Cerenid walked to the lone window, and gazed out upon the city walls, pale and bright beneath the midday Sol. “There is more,” Cerenid’s voice lowered. “Word has come from Dregrove. Mendo is dead.”
Kethu inclined his head, as though greeting an expected guest.
“I cannot let Una or mother depart to bury their father.”
“Aye, Una’s road is sown with danger. The Fys— Kaldwin at least— will surely lie in ambush.”
“Word comes that they art already intercepting couriers,” Cerenid added. “They know who comes and goes…”
…But then woe filled the lad’s face.
“What else troubles you?” Kethu asked. “Dost thou fearest for Una… or for thyself, also?”
Cerenid’s mouth tightened, and for a breath he bristled. Then the fire passed from his face and he bowed his head.
“I will not lie to thee, teacher. It is for my life that I fear. Most of all, if Una is not beside me. Twice already she has stood between me and death.”
“To fear is to be human,” said Kethu. “Yet fear hath a scent, and the wolves will follow it. Fear drives men to haste, and haste to folly, and folly to ruin.”
“Yet I fear, teacher. How shall I find courage?”
“Try to think of thy danger as though it threatened another. Be not the rex in thine own mind but be another instead— be the keeper of the rex, rather than the rex. Thus, shalt thou seest more clearly.”
“So then Una must go home?”
“Yes, by her time. Yet whether on the morrow, or with the turning of leaves, only she can say.”
“What meanest thou?”
“The Prophet Azarius draweth nigh,” said Kethu. At the utterance of that name, the very air seemed to hush and listen. “He told me this in Golgon, in the far centuries gone, that He would come unto me once more, upon the eve of my departing.”
“And thou dost believe it still?” Cerenid asked.
“I do,” replied Kethu, “though three hundred years have worn away since it was promised. His coming is writ both in thy chronicles and in ours… and in theirs. Why else would the southern spies be hunting for Him here? He is our uniter by prophecy made manifest. His truth shall aid thee in uniting the men of Norland to march.”
“Will Una then lead the men of Dregrove?”
“No,” Kethu answered. “Madrot must bear the host of Dregrove beneath thy banner; and for this cause must Una return thither, to rule in his stead, while the storm of Norland men is loosed.”
“Then Azarius will lead the Norland host.”
“No!” Kethu’s voice strengthened. “When prophets return, it is not as kings or warlords. He is not the leader of men. He is only the shepherd of their souls. Thou art the rex, Cerenid.”
“But they will not follow me, teacher. For I am not yet a man.”
“Then you must become one, quickly. If thou leadest them not, they will slay one another in the field. And if thou remainest here, thou shalt be slain by them. Then shall Bafomet come with his golden host, and Norland shall fall into ash and bondage with nary a blade raised in its defense.”
Cerenid folded his arms, his gaze cast down, the weight of command pressing upon him like stone.
“I know your trouble, Cerenid,” Kethu said, voice softening back into a murmur. “Thy charge is greater than breath or bone. Yet remember, all lives flicker but a handful of heartbeats. Most men pass their span never knowing why they were even born. Thou hast been endowed with a purpose. Cherish that as a precious gift.”
Cerenid breathed deeply, slowly, then nodded, though his hands trembled.
“There is yet one more truth I must give thee,” Kethu said. “It concerns thy brother. He spoke to me of the cave, when ye were boys. He told me what he beheld there.”
Cerenid looked up.
“He saw thee,” Kethu continued. “He saw thee standing alone in single combat. And he saw thee fall.”
“Aye, teacher. That is what he said to me as well.”
“Thou must know this,” Kethu said. “That is why he offered himself in combat at Briganta. He thought to spare thee. And in that choice, a choice made of love, he found his purpose in life.”
“But he died,” Cerenid whispered, “and left his burden unto me.”
“He did not go forth to die, Cerenid,” said Kethu gently. “He went forth to prevail. Yet Madrot unmade his measure with the brutish cunning of his blows.”
A sorrow passed through Cerenid’s eyes, deep and unguarded.
“You must forgive Madrot for this. He did not choose to duel your brother. Your brother chose. In the coming days, thou wilt need Madrot to lead his warriors under your command.”
Cerenid’s face hardened. “I cannot forgive him. Nor can I forgive my brother.”
“Hear me, young rex. One cannot bargain with that which hath already come to pass.” Kethu smiled in kindness. “Thy brother took up his mantle and the world turned as it must. Do not make light of his sacrifice by shrinking from thine own. To refuse thy burden is to lay it upon the dead. Our burdens give our lives their meaning.”
[i] Tartarus is the name for the underworld, where souls travel after death to be assigned their next life and drink the water of forgetfulness from the River Thol.