ElvenSword

Volume 1 of The Tapestry of Life

ON THE ROAD (5)

Some chronicles state that the Bearer was already an accomplished soldier and mage when he discovered and drew the sword in the stone. However, it is abundantly clear that he was a mere stripling when he was first discovered, without any skills whatever. It is a miracle that despite all the obvious hindrances, he nevertheless became Emperor – perhaps a good example of the old adage ‘being at the right place at the right time’. There are some touching but obviously untrue myths about the unveiling of the sword. One such is that Vordath was drawn to the sword by a flock of black swans with gold-tipped feathers, the special creatures of the Great Spirit.

Forath ys Jarain – History of the Emperor Vordath I

In the deep black of a far south night, long before the late autumn sunrise, Steppan wriggled out of the pile of blankets and fleeces.

“Fluin?” The boy was instantly awake, alert and ready to flee. He calmed when he saw that it was Steppan, and yawned. He stretched and then crawled out of the heap of covers, and stood up in a single fluid motion. Steppan repacked his belongings, leaving the revolting mattress on the floor. Neither had undressed the night before, and in a few moments, quiet as dust, they slipped down to the stables.

“Wait here for me,” whispered Steppan, pointing to the gate from the stable-yard into the street. As Fluin walked away, Steppan cast an obscuration glamour over him. His body faded into shadow.

The ostler was asleep in the straw with his horses. Yawning, he let Steppan in.

“Thy ’orse is ’ere, my lord,” he said, leading Steppan over to one of the stables. He stared cretinously at Steppan, and suddenly ducked his head as if afraid. Steppan wondered if he had seen the fight the night before, or whether he himself was simply so terrifying that simple people became afraid in his presence. That thought had never struck him before, and he found it dispiriting.

He debated whether it would a wise idea to buy or steal a second horse. He and Fluin would not be able to ride double with any comfort. In the end, he decided against it, because it would be obvious why to anyone wondering why a man with a broken neck lay in the straw. He would buy another – “for his packs” – at the next small town.

The man saddled and bridled Steppan’s horse. Steppan gave him a copper denar, then mounted.

Out in the lane, Fluin was a thicker shadow in the pre-dawn obscurity.

Steppan held his hand down to Fluin to help him mount. Fluin settled himself clumsily in behind him. Steppan was amused when the youngster put his arms round him and held tightly. Steppan could feel a thin frame pressed against his back. He could feel the boy trembling a little, from excitement or fear. The thought struck him that Fluin had probably never ridden before. Poor people couldn’t afford to keep horses. Unless you worked on a farm, you didn’t ride. Brave, though – he hadn’t said a word about not having been on the back of a horse before, and Steppan well remembered his own terror the first time he rode. Only the tightness with which Fluin held his body gave him away.

As they left the alleyway next to the inn, Fluin pointed right, and after a hundred yards, left. Light was seeping into the eastern sky, and there were few clouds, though all around them was dark. It was going to be a better day than the day before. The cold sweet air of morning calmed their souls.

The cottage was small, whitewashed mudbrick, roofed with uneven wooden tiles, its eaves sweeping low, and its shape twisted by the slow, irregular drying of its once straight oak timbers. It was the sort of place modern novelists, comfortable in Cappor’s luxuries, would enthuse about. To Steppan it looked insanitary and uncomfortable, but it was undeniably charming. The window shutters were painted a delicate blue, with little ornamental flowers and leaves round the edges. Creepers, some still with hectic scarlet leaves, covered the walls, and rose bushes grew in a disarrayed jumble under the windows.

Fluin produced a key from his jacket and unlocked the door. Just inside, there was an unlit oil lamp, ready for Fluin’s return. He lit it, and said, confident now that he was on his own ground, “I’ll get a few things.”

Steppan’s horse stamped and puffed in the crepuscular light, its breath smoky in the chill. Steppan took a look round the room, while Fluin opened cupboards and filled a pack with stuff. There were books, and more books, some rather bad drawings, a rough table and two worn and shabby mismatched armchairs. No peasant’s cottage. A fire laid in the fireplace – Fluin was organised! – and a place setting for one at the table. So lonely, it was heartbreaking. Steppan couldn’t have said why this sight affected him like it did, but he felt a lump in his throat.

In just a moment or two, Fluin was ready.

“Whose are the books?”

“My mother’s. Ours. Mine, now, I suppose.”

“It seems a pity to leave them – books are precious. But we have no way of taking them with us.”

Fluin shrugged. “I’m leaving the house, which is even more valuable. It’s mine, now that mama . . . . The miller did try to throw me out. But she left it to me in her will. He can have it now. He’ll probably use the books for lighting fires. I want to take them all – and I can’t. I’ve taken the two I most want.”

“What did you choose?” inquired Steppan, interested.

“A herb lore, and a book that Magda said belonged to my mother. And a drawing of my mother and my father and one of Magda. I’ve put them inside the books to keep them from getting crumpled.”

“May I see them?” asked Steppan. But Fluin totally ignored him. Thoroughly snubbed, Steppan didn’t feel like asking again. He could tell that Fluin had heard the question by the slightly heightened colour in his cheeks.

Before they set off, Steppan cast an obscuring spell over the house.

“It will stop people finding it, unless they are totally determined. One day, you may wish to come back, to take the books or even to live here. It’s right that it remains yours.” Fluin just shrugged.

Thanks to the obscuration Steppan had laid upon Fluin, the gatekeeper thought there was just a single rider, Fluin no more than a thicker shadow at Steppan’s back. He let them out of the safety of the stockade into the country, with only a few grumbles.

“We’ll take the road south,” said Steppan, “then leave the main road, taking the byways. Then we’ll turn south again. That should shake off any pursuit.” They would have to take their chances with bandits and the other hazards of the road. He would start to teach Fluin how to defend himself as soon as they reached Bridgetown. After last night, he didn’t question his courage. But Fluin’s skills would not defend him against a skilled swordsman. If absolutely necessary, Steppan would use his powers – but he would avoid that as long as possible. The risk of detection was too great.

Beyond almost everything, Vordath the Bearer and his sword had to be found, before it was too late.

They set off down the track into the forest. Fluin knew this forest well – he had often walked it with Magda, looking for mushrooms, berries or herbs. The sun rose and glinted on the stiff ice-covered grass, tinging the brown with a cold pink-gold. Tendrils of mist rose from the frost. Fallen gold carpeted the forest floor, and there were russet and blond leaves outlined against the cerulean sky. From time to time, a few birds called, and once, they startled some ducks that fled calling ‘maak! maak!’ in alarm onto a nearby mere. It was a morning when it was good to be alive.

They came to a place, about two hours ride from the village, where a small rock face rose steeply on their left, while on their right was a thicket of hawthorn and brambles. Two armed riders stepped into the path in front of them, their weapons drawn. They heard the jingle of harness behind them as two others blocked their escape.

“Halt!” said one wearing a sergeant’s crescents, raising the hand that wasn’t holding her sword. Steppan reached for his own blade.

“I wouldn’t,” she said, dryly, gesturing to the top of the cliff. “Archers have their bows trained on you. You are on the Duchess of Carnia’s land.”

“So?”

“You need permission to cross her territory. You look like fugitives. My mistress would like to speak with you. You will have to come back with us to the keep.”

Fluin could feel the tenseness in Steppan’s body, and he realised that his awareness and understanding of Steppan’s feelings were heightened by the blood-link. Interestingly, Steppan wasn’t angry or afraid, just very wary.

The Duchess’s soldiers bound their wrists, and tied their horses on a leading rein to their own. They set off towards the east.

They reached the ancestral castle of the Carnias after sunset. Its lights gleamed like a beacon of civilisation on the hill where it had been built, which rose up out of the surrounding countryside, giving the keep a good view over miles of forest and cultivated land. It had been the capital of an independent country, once. Fluin could feel the power in it, the power of men.

The sergeant went up to the massive oaken gate, brass-studded and brass-hinged, and lifted the weighty brass knocker. She let it fall. The hollow echo thudded on and on.

In her keep, her Grace had been having supper. Despite her great wealth and even greater ambitions, she was abstemious, living on watered wine, rough bread, cheese, and fruit. At receptions, she fed and wined her guests well, and pretended to eat herself, but she secretly despised their gluttony and self-indulgence. When she had the power, she would put paid to the decadence and evil that passed for civilised behaviour in Cappor. She intended to extirpate this modern weakness, and return Cappor to the virtues of the old days, when the empire had been strong, the days of the Panthron Fanuiloth, who had brought peace and plenty to the whole of the inner sea. She had no doubt that she was destined to do the same.

“Your Grace, a patrol has taken two men. Zbathon thinks you should talk to them.”

She nodded. Zbathon brought Steppan and Fluin in.

She recognised Steppan at once – how could she not? They had met at many parties and receptions in the city. He looked at her in silence, his face betraying nothing. She realised what a catch he was – she knew perfectly well about Patrika’s little network of spies, though she did not know who all the members of this group were. Controlling Steppan would allow her to turn the tables – perhaps she could even turn Steppan himself. She knew who and what Patrika was loyal to. She knew also that Steppan didn’t work because he needed the money. He was a dilettante spy, the kind she despised most. She wondered how flexible his convictions were.

He was also a noble and wealthy. One did not bind people like that in this way, not without good cause. She wondered briefly who Fluin was, assumed he was Steppan’s servant, and ignored him.

Steppan saw this, and far-thought to Fluin <<don’t say anything>>. Fluin quickly covered his surprise at hearing Steppan’s voice inside his head. For a moment, he wondered if Steppan had spoken out loud, but the Duchess gave no sign that she had heard.

“Release them,” she said. When this had been done, she said, “My lord Steppan, I apologise for the excesses of my staff. One cannot be too careful in these unsettled times. Would you care for some wine?”

“Thank you, Your Grace, that would be delightful,” said Steppan dryly, rubbing his arms and legs to restore circulation.

A crystal glass was set in front of him, and an exquisite, dully gleaming vintage poured.

“Your very good health, my lord!” she toasted him.

“And yours, Your Grace. May you long prosper.” There was just the faintest hint of irony in Steppan’s tone. The Duchess allowed herself a slight smile. She had the upper hand, after all.

“How come you to be on my lands, my lord?”

He smiled coldly at her. “I was not aware that a citizen of the empire needed permission to cross the constituent parts of our country. I am travelling to see some friends, as I am sure you well know.”

“Indeed,” and she did know. She too had spies, some of whom also worked for Patrika, and some who worked for the panthraska. She regretted the necessity for these dishonourable types, but necessity there was. She did not doubt that. She knew almost as much about the forces leading to the likely destruction of Cappor and its decaying empire as anybody. Only Patrika knew more.

“And what other purpose do you have, my lord?”

“Is friendship not enough, Your Grace?”

“The one you visit is of high birth and very powerful.”

“She has chosen her path, and will not veer from it. She is very . . . . stubborn.”

“That is a pity. I had hoped to persuade her otherwise. She could be very influential if she wanted.” Steppan greatly doubted the sincerity of this. Fluin listened to this conversation, intrigued by the references, but completely at a loss as to what they meant.

“It was my impression, Your Grace, that you might choose another to do your bidding.”

“Any tool will do,” she replied, calmly. “I want to restore the power of the empire. There are enemies gathering. We will need a resolute leader.”

“You, I suppose,” replied Steppan, his lips curled in derision.

“No, as it happens. We will not speak of the true heir.” No, thought Steppan, we won’t. Not until we’ve found him.

“What of the reports of necromancy in a village, a day’s ride west of here? And of a death?” asked the Duchess, adroitly changing the subject.

Steppan was thrown off guard. “There was no necromancy,” said he, with a hint of anger. Fluin’s expression hardened, and his eyes turned into slate blue chips. If anyone is going to take the blame, he thought, it will be me! But he remained silent because Steppan had asked him.

“But there was a death,” she answered dryly. “An event that is always regrettable.”

“Indeed, Your Grace. Most regrettable.”

To her surprise, he was sincere. He had struck her as much more cold-blooded than that. There was a small silence.

“What happened?”

Steppan sighed, and looked down at his hands. She knew from that action that some of what he said was going to be untrue.

“The man who died, died by accident. He and some fellow ruffians attacked a – friend – of mine, who was defending himself with difficulty. I intervened, and the man attacked me from behind. When I turned, I threw him as far as I could. Most unfortunately, he hit the wall, and broke his neck.”

“Yes, I had heard much that story. And where is your friend?”

“Here!” said Steppan, his mouth quirking ironically, turning towards Fluin.

Fluin bowed. “Your Grace.” Magda had taught Fluin how to address each rank in the Capporean nobility. She had also taught him that, though he should be polite, he was as good as anyone, and need not feel himself inferior. Yet despite this, he found the Duchess formidable. Her face was hard and there was a manic gleam in her eyes. She wore power as easily as a coat.

Steppan stared at Fluin, with just a hint of a smile around his eyes, and Fluin stared back. The bond between them was almost tangible. How touching, thought the Duchess, sourly, observing Fluin properly for the first time. Obviously the lord’s catamite. Understandable. Very beautiful. This was an interesting complication.

“May I introduce my friend Fluin ys Byon, Your Grace? Fluin, this is Her Grace, the Duchess of Carnia.”

“I am charmed, madam, to make your acquaintance,” said Fluin, bowing again. Steppan caught a tiny sparkle of irony in his eyes, and permitted himself a secret smile. Fluin, with all the appearance of a peasant, could stand up to this diabolical old woman, and do it with grace and courtesy. He was pleased. Yet this oddity raised some questions, too, not least of which was why an apparent peasant should have received such an education.

“Enchanted, I’m sure,” said the Duchess, off-hand. She struggled to place Fluin’s rank. The accent, the vocabulary marked him unmistakably as belonging to the nobility or the gentry, but his clothes! She would have died before being seen abroad in such worn, shabby garments. “Would you care for some wine, Fluin?” She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Thank you, Your Grace, that would be most welcome – most hospitable of you. I have been long on the road.” Noble, she thought, undoubtedly. A servant came forward, and poured him some of the same wine that was in Steppan’s goblet. Fluin took a long swallow. He was surprised at how delicious this wine was compared to the watery vinegar they sold in the inn.

“Long indeed – since you left the village where you killed a man, one of my subjects.” Her voice suddenly sharp and hard.

“I have already told you I was responsible for that deed!” snapped Steppan.

Fluin flicked a glance at him. Then he shook his head, and stepping swiftly up to the Duchess, sank to his knees in front of her. Zbathon moved quickly forward, drawing his dagger, but the Duchess waved him back. “It was a mistake, Your Grace. I did not mean it. He attacked Steppan from behind, and I flung him back against the wall, and broke his neck.” His voice was trembling from fear, yet she could see the determination, and honesty, on his face. Her respect for him rose.

“The penalty is death.”

“Now that you have the culprit, Your Grace, perhaps you will release Steppan, who is innocent.” Fluin replied, his trepidation obvious in his voice.

“Of much, perhaps. But he lied to me.”

“I regret the necessity for that, Your Grace . . . . ” Steppan.

“ . . . . He was trying to save me, Your Grace. And lying is not a capital offence,” interrupted Fluin, pleading.

“Yes, I am well aware of his motives. And of yours. I think we will talk more on this in the morning. Zbathon, Greta, please show these gentlemen to their room. May the Weavers keep you, my lord, Fluin.” She turned away, and they were ushered out of the room. Zbathon had put away his dagger, but had drawn a sword, and he walked behind them as they were taken upstairs to one of the guest bedrooms, and locked in.

They looked at each other for a moment. Then Fluin said, “I should have parted from you after we left the village. I’ve got you into trouble. I’m sorry.”

Steppan shrugged. “I suspect I would have been stopped whether I was with you or not.”

But Fluin was convinced that he had brought trouble upon Steppan. He undressed morosely, and got into the huge double bed. He had just been a burden to everybody, and could see no way he would be able to save Steppan from the Duchess’s claws. And he himself would probably be hanged for murder. He turned over and lay facing the wall. He felt bleak and sad, and only too well aware that he was suddenly flung into involvement in affairs that were way beyond anything in his experience.

He felt the bed give as Steppan sat down next to him, but refused to look at him. Steppan sighed. “Truly, it’s not your fault, Fluin. Don’t you think I could look after myself?” He laughed cynically. “Me?”

Fluin turned to look at him, angry, and hissed “I don’t know what or who you are! And I owe you my life.”

“You are absolved of that burden,” said Steppan.

“Never!” said Fluin.

“Fool of a boy,” said Steppan with irritation, but almost fondly. He got up and started to undress. “We will find out our fate in the morning.”

“What if she decides to put us to death?”

“She won’t. She needs me for something.” And me? thought Fluin. “She thinks we are lovers,” said Steppan, as if he knew Fluin’s thoughts. “That means you are safe too. And if she tries anything, I have other tricks up my sleeve.” He spoke of all this without shame, but Fluin’s face, turned towards the wall, was fiery. Steppan climbed under the bedclothes, and Fluin thought, now it will happen. But nothing did, and in a few minutes, he could feel Steppan’s even breath soft on the back of his neck, and in time, he went to sleep too.

© 2010 Nigel Puerasch. All rights reserved.

Romantic m2m novels and short stories

www.nigelpuerasch.com

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