Chapter Eleven
Taken from the family archive of the House Den Rannion,
Bremilayne.
From Lyal, Sieur Den Rannion, to Ingaret, Messire Den Perinal, by the hand in person of Milral Arman, of common height with red hair and blue eyes, a scar on his sword arm and a brand of horse theft on his off hand.
My dear cousin,
I write with the sad tidings that my esteemed father, Vahil, late Sieur of this House was received by Saedrin’s grace on the 44th day of For-Summer. I would ask that you convey this news to your mother, my beloved aunt, Maitresse Elsire, in such a manner as you feel appropriate for her age and infirmity. I leave it to your discretion as to whether or not you tell her his final words were of their parents, the friends of his youth, and sorrow over some undischarged vow. I regret to say that this last caused him no little distress and consequently, I assured him that, when circumstance allowed, I would seek to rediscover the lost colony of which I know your mother also still speaks.
Between, ourselves, I can only pray that Saedrin is able to pacify my father on this matter, else we face the prospect of his inconsolate shade wandering our halls for some generations to come. Our situation is not as desperate as some but Misaen will halt the moons before I have resources to spend chasing an old man’s disappointments with only half-remembered tales and inadequate records to guide me. The fighting has passed us by for the moment and I am in negotiation with sundry Houses in support of the Sieur D’Aleonne. I would appreciate your thoughts on this matter and, of course, any assurance of military aid that you might care to make available, should the situation in your locality become more stable. You might also care to know that the Sieur D’Istrac has approached me in respect of a betrothal between my daughter Kindra and his eldest nephew. How go your negotiations with D’Evoir?
Kel Ar’Ayen, 22nd of For-Autumn
Are you all ready to go?” Shiv sauntered down the wharf, his own baggage slung negligently over one shoulder.
“I think so.” I looked up to the gateway to the Den Rannion steading, now cleared and roughly repaired. Halice and Livak were deep in conversation, Halice in workaday breeches and jerkin while Livak stood with her kit-bag leaning against the wall. I rubbed a hand against my pocket to reassure me that the parchment bearing Halice’s account of the healing done to her leg was secure there. If I were going to hand back my oath, I would be rendering a full accounting.
“I was rather surprised when she said she was staying,” Shiv remarked. “How’s Livak taking it? I know they’ve been close a long time.”
“Whatever else, she wants Halice to be content,” I shrugged.
“Yes, she’s sad, and she’s done every cursed thing she can to change her mind, but when all the runes are thrown, it’s still Halice’s decision. Livak can’t deny her that.”
“Do you know why, exactly?” Shiv looked curious. “I haven’t liked to ask.”
“Halice says she’s had enough of fighting in Lescar, of spending every season losing friends only to have all the runes swept back into the bag and drawn afresh the next year. I can’t say I blame her, that’s one of the reasons my friend Aiten got clear of the civil wars. Now Halice reckons she’s found a place where her skills can be useful and she feels she’s fighting for a worthwhile cause.” I grimaced, wondering where I would find such a thing now and still feeling a dull pang at Aiten’s name.
“I hope she doesn’t have to do any more fighting this year,” Shiv grimaced. “Until we can get some more people over here, they’re still cursed vulnerable.”
I shook my head and pointed at the walls of the steading where busy figures were repairing the crenellations and wall walk. “Most of the mercenaries are staying and, with all the colonists we could revive, they should be all right through the winter. They’ve been putting the prisoners to work building houses and defenses as well as picking everything they can find to eat or store, so they’re well enough prepared.”
“I still think it’s odd so many of them surrendered like that.” Shiv shook his head. “How can we be sure there are no magic-wielders among them?”
“Guinalle is sure of it.” I shrugged. “She’s been picking their minds apart if they so much as look at anyone sideways. Parrail was telling me it’s all connected with a hierarchy of authority in the Elietimm culture.” I did my best to mimic the young scholar’s earnest tones. “Once their leader was dead, they had no choice but to submit to the leader of those strong enough to defeat him.”
“Sounds highly implausible to me,” muttered Shiv darkly.
“I don’t know, I’ve been thinking about it. Remember, those islands aren’t like Lescar, able to keep ripping each other apart year after year because so many other people get fat off the spoils or have an interest in keeping the fighting going. If the Elietimm fought like Lescaris, all they’d have in a couple of seasons would be bare rock to eat and cold sea to drink.”
“Maybe.” Shiv did not look convinced.
“The prisoners aren’t a threat, Shiv. If they all die of a fever tomorrow, the colony can manage without them.” I wouldn’t grieve if they did, I thought, silently acknowledging that I shared Shiv’s reservations to some extent. “No, everyone here will be safe enough over the winter; the Elietimm won’t be able to cross the ocean again this year. Better yet, losing their expedition should give them pause for thought before they set sail in the spring, even if they know what happened to them, which I would doubt.”
“Has anyone come up with an explanation for those bastards having copies of the ancient Tormalin charts of this place, the ones made by Den Fellaemion or whatever he was called?”
“Not that I’ve heard.” I tried to look unconcerned, not wanting to think about Planir’s request that I use my possible new status to investigate this on Messire’s behalf. “I hardly think it’s important.”
“I hope you’re right,” Shiv sighed. “I suppose that’s one advantage we have over them. We can cross the ocean this late in the year, though Trimon knows I’m not looking forward to it without Otrick or Viltred to help.”
“Dastennin grant us safe passage,” I agreed, none too keen myself at the prospect of the imminent voyage in the teeth of the autumn storms.
“So what will you be doing?” Shiv rummaged in a pocket and handed me a little horn beaker. I held it while he filled it with water, which soon began to steam gently. “Go on, tell me,” he urged as he dropped a twist of muslin fragrant with herbs into the cup. “I saw you talking to Planir, what did he have to say?”
I handed Shiv his tisane. “It seems the Archmage gave your old friend Casuel letters to take to Messire before we started our voyage. Anyway, Cas was asked to stay on, so that Planir could advise Messire directly of the success or otherwise of our quest.”
“And?” demanded Shiv.
“And Messire feels I should be raised in rank from sworn man to chosen man,” I said dryly.
“But that’s an honor, isn’t it?” asked Shiv doubtfully, seeing my expression.
“It could be, if I choose to accept it,” I nodded, still looking at Livak who was hugging Halice. “I have the voyage home to decide in, haven’t I? Have you another one of those cups?” I wasn’t about to discuss this with anyone before I had talked everything through with Livak. “Anyway, what will you be doing with yourself?”
“After I’ve taken Pered to Col for the Equinox, you mean?” Shiv grinned as he handed me the tisane, but his expression suddenly became serious as he made another for himself. “Planir will have every mage with wits or breath busy testing everything we learn about aetheric magic, sorry, Artifice I suppose we should be calling it now. That and threatening every scholar, university and temple with fire and flood unless they give up everything they know about the slightest magical tradition. Saedrin knows, the magic we’ve won has been costly enough.”