Stolen Crown Page 2

  As the day drew upon the world and the sun illuminated the clear waters of the sea, “I deem it safe now to come above,” he called.

  From the tiny cabin below a female answered, a tremor in her gentle voice. “Soon, Lord Vanidar. I am feeding Reyer, now.”

  Silverleaf nodded to himself, and, tying the tiller, he took up a lantern and replaced the glass with a bracket, then he lit the flame beneath. He set a small copper teapot upon the tiny improvised stove and added fresh water. Soon he infused the steaming liquid with a few generous pinches of tea and set it aside to steep.

  Up and out from the small quarters below, a slender, young, dark-haired woman clad in men’s garments emerged. Her face was drawn and gaunt—from fear and grief and lack of sleep—and her dark blue eyes were shot with red from weeping.

  Saying naught a word, Silverleaf handed her a cup of the warm tisane.

  Gratefully, she took it, clutching it in both hands. After a sip, she said, “They’re both sleeping: Reyer and my own Alric.”

  “We are going to have to give Reyer a different name, Lady Gretta.”

  The Jordian woman looked into Silverleaf’s pale grey gaze. “My Lord Vanidar, why would we—? Oh. I see.”

  “Just so, my lady,” said Silverleaf.

  “Where are we taking him, Lord Vanidar?”

  “By order of the High King, to Kell.”

  “The westernmost isle of Gelen? The one not on any map?”

  “Aye. It seems shipmasters and their navigators are reluctant to put it on any map, for it was a time hidden by a remote ring of mist, though once on the isle, no mist wafted in the distance upon the sea, either near or far. Whether it be Mage- or god-made, one might think that strange, neh? And fearing to displease Magekind or mayhap Garlon, god of the sea, ocean pilots and captains did not record its position, and they still hew to that tradition, even though only natural mists now and then hide the isle. Aye, even to this day no map marks its place, yet all sailors of any worth ken where the island lies, so its location is not a great secret, yet once it was and to some still is. Regardless, strange or not, superstitions be damned, ’tis to Kell we go.”

  “Then we should call him something that fits the Kellian tongue.”

  Silverleaf nodded. “We should.”

  “I don’t know any Kellian names,” said Gretta.

  Silverleaf burst out in laughter. “Neither do I.”

  • • •

  THEY STOPPED TWICE IN small seaside villages along the way to pick up supplies and fresh water and to gain respite from the small craft, but always they sailed onward, heading for Arbalin Isle. Altogether a fortnight passed ere in a driving rain they rode the braw breeze and a flowing dusk tide into safe harbor to take anchorage at Port Arbalin.

  Sheltering the pair of two-year-olds from the downpour, Silverleaf led Gretta to a modest inn—the Gull—and that night they slept soundly for the first time in days. The next morn, Silverleaf went to the harbormaster and arranged for passage to Kell. “With warship escorts through the Straits of Kistan, mind you, to ward off the Rovers lurking there.”

  Upon his return to the Gull, bearing needed provender and goods he tapped upon Lady Gretta’s door. As they unloaded the wares, he said, “I stopped at the Red Slipper and had a drink with an old friend, and I now have a Kellian name for Reyer.”

  “What is it?” asked Gretta, stowing the commodities while keeping an eye upon the two wee lads—Reyer fair-haired, Alric dark-. Both children, free at last from tight ship’s quarters, happily toddled about the chamber to now and again stop and examine something, all the while babbling away in a language they both seemed to understand.

  “Rígán. We will call him Rígán, a fitting name.”

  “Has it a meaning?”

  “Aye. Little King.”

  “Won’t that be telling?”

  Silverleaf shook his head. “Aravan says many a Kellian lad is named Rígán.”

  • • •

  THREE MONTHS LATER, as he had been instructed by the now dead High King, Silverleaf bearing Rígán, and Gretta holding Alric, rode from a small seaside village on the western shores of Kell and to a cattle-and-pig farm carved out of the forest in the green-clad rolling hills beyond. They met with a widower named Conal—forty or so—who had been a captain in the King’s Guard some ten years past.

  When Silverleaf rode away the next day—with Gretta’s mount on a lead following after—he left Gretta and Rígán and Alric behind in the loyal care of a soldier, a farmer, a drover, a King’s man.

  Moreover, that the forest surround also harbored Dylvana was of no small import in the plan.

  3

  Boskydells

  In a world of many things of wonder, perhaps the most exceptional is a place called the Boskydells. It is a land of fens, forests, and fields west of the Spindle River and north and east of the arc of the Wenden, and south of the Dalara Plains. It is a Warrowland, a place that is well protected in times of strife by a massive and towering barrier of thorns—Spindlethorns—growing in the river valleys around the Land. This formidable maze of living stilettos forms an effective shield surrounding the Boskydells, turning aside all but the most determined. There are a few roads within long thorn tunnels passing through the barrier, and during times of crisis, inside these tunnels Warrow archers stand guard behind movable barricades made of the Spindlethorn, to keep ruffians and other unsavory characters outside while permitting ingress to those with legitimate business. In generally peaceful times, however, these ways are left unguarded, and any who want to enter may do so.

  As to the Warrows themselves, they are a small folk, for the most part the adults standing somewhere between three and three foot eight, though there are stories of some grown Warrows being two inches shorter to four inches taller than this general range. Their ears are pointed, and their bright, jewellike eyes have a tilt to them, with irises of amber like gold, the deep blue of sapphire, or pale emerald green.

  Warrow home and village life is one of pastoral calm, but do not let this rustic lifestyle fool you, for, with their bows and arrows and slings and stones and stealth and guile, in times of strife Warrows are perhaps the most deadly warriors on the face of Mithgar.

  But for the most part they are quite peaceful, and the eld buccen tend to gather at pubs and taverns and inns throughout the Bosky and talk of the times and ruminate over any news that might have come that day or that week or that month or events that might have happened, or surely did so, in the distant past. . . .

  . . . And in one of those small inns . . .

  • • •

  “DID YOU HEAR, Gran, that the High King’s dead and a new High King now sits on the throne?”

  Granlon Brownburr shucked out of his slicker and hung it on a peg by the door. Naught but a distant drumming to those two flights below, the rain hammered down on the roof of the One-Eyed Crow, the only inn in Woody Hollow. Granlon bent over and swiftly brushed his hair with his fingers, knocking the excess water to the floor. As he made his way from the foyer toward the bar, he turned his emeraldine gaze upon his questioner. “How could I not hear it, Dabe? I mean, it’s all over the Bosky and beyond.”

  With his own jewellike amber gaze reflecting disappointment, Dabe’s face fell a bit, his morsel of news not news at all. “Wull, I just thought, you being up in the Jillians and all, tradin’ Downdell leaf and such, that you might have missed it.”

  “Oh, no. No chance of that. I mean, a Garian herald came to the Tors and announced that King Valen was dead and that someone named Arkov was the new High King.”

  “Is that his name? Arkov? We didn’t know.”

  “Yar, was king of Garia. Now is High King.”

  As if making some kind of resolute stand, Dabe pulled himself to his full three foot four and looked Granlon dead in the eye. “They overthrew him—Valen, I mean—and that just don
’t seem right, if you ask me.”

  Granlon sighed and nodded. “I hear what you’re saying, Dabe, and you’re right that it’s just not right.”

  Other patrons in the small inn looked at one another in agreement, and the common room seemed filled with tangible unrest. Granlon took a deep breath and slowly let it out, and then he stepped to the bar and ordered a stiff brandy.

  “On the house, Gran,” said Will, proprietor of the ’Crow. “How about some warm soup? Arla’s best.”

  “I’d like that. And might she have some of those oatmeal and raisin cookies for after?”

  “When has she not ever had them, Gran?”

  Gran gave Will a wry smile and took his brandy to a table by the fire, Dabe following after.

  The inn had its usual gathering of Warrows, some, like Gran, showing evidence of the storm, many of whom were also drawn to the hearth.

  “How did them Jillianers take the news?” asked Dabe.

  “They shrugged it off,” said Granlon. “They’ve been in rebellion for as long as any care to tell. Not that it’s a bother to any of the High Kings.” Granlon smiled. “I mean, back in the day, old King Renner sent a troop up there to collect taxes and such, and they couldn’t find nary a soul. The Jillianers simply took to the tors—sheep, cattle, and all—and hid out till the troop gave up and went away.”

  Granlon burst out in laughter and all others joined in, for though the Boskydellers had heard the story many a time, still they took pleasure in it.

  “I wonder what we’d do if this so-called new High King decides to send soldiers to the Bosky to take what we’ve worked hard to earn?” asked Norv, the local barber, and at three foot seven he was the tallest buccan in the crowd. “Would we rebel like the Jillianers? Rally the Thornwalkers and slam the Thornring shut?”

  “Not ever going to happen,” said Will, bearing a steaming bowl of Arla’s split pea soup to Granlon, along with a half loaf of fresh-baked bread. “The High King, whoever he might be and no matter his reign, is ever in the debt of the Bosky. I mean, Tipperton saw to that, during the Great War.”

  A murmur of affirmation muttered through the patrons, and some removed their caps at mention of Tipperton Thistledown’s given name.

  “It isn’t right, you know,” said Caden, owner of the granary and mill on the north bank of the Dinglerill.

  “What isn’t right?” asked Dabe. “Taxes? The Jillian rebels? What?”

  “The overthrow of the High King,” said Caden. “I mean, now there’s a usurper on the throne.”

  A general murmur of agreement muttered throughout the common room.

  “Still, it’s not like we’re going to march on Caer Pendwyr, now is it?” said Granlon.

  “And who’s to say we won’t?” retorted Caden, his sapphire-blue eyes glinting with rebellion.

  “Without something or someone to deal with the King’s cavalry, we wouldn’t stand a chance out in the open,” said Norv.

  “What about them at Challerain Keep?” asked Dabe, turning to Granlon.

  Granlon paused in his slurping and dipping of bread. “On my way back, I heard whispers that the ones at the ’Keep won’t have anything to do with this Arkov.”

  “Yar, but with Valen and his queen and only heir all dead, it’s not like we have a choice in the matter,” said Norv.

  “Well, let me ask you this,” said Will. “With a usurper on the throne of the High King, what are we going to do if the Gjeenian penny shows up at our borders?”

  But for the drumming of rain and the crackle of fire, Will’s question brought complete silence to the common room.

  But then Arla appeared bearing a spatula and a full baking tin hot from the oven. “Cookie, anyone?”

  4

  Challerain Keep

  Long ago, in very ancient times, there had been no city of Challerain; it was merely the name given to a craggy mount standing tall amid a close ring of low foothills upon the rolling grassland prairies of Rian. Then there came the stirrings of War, and a watch was set upon Mont Challerain: various kinds of beacon fires would be lit as signals to warn of approaching armies, or to signal muster call, or to celebrate victory, or to send messages to distant realms via the chain of signal fires down the ancient range of tall hills called the Signal Mountains and south from there over the Dellin Downs into Harth and the lands beyond. War did come, and many of those signal towers were destroyed, but not the one atop Mont Challerain.

  After the War, this far northern outpost became a fortress: Challerain Keep. And with the establishment of a fort, a village sprang up at the foot of Mont Challerain. Yet it would have remained but a small hamlet, except the High King, himself, came north to the fortress to train at arms; and he established his summer court there, where he could overlook the approaches to the Rigga Mountains, and beyond, to Gron.

  Year after year the King returned, and at last a great castle was raised, incorporating the fort within its grounds. It was then that the village grew into a town, and the town into a city. The city prospered, and it, too, was called Challerain Keep. Thus it had been for thousands of years. . . .

  . . . And on that mountain within that keep and inside that castle in a council chamber . . .

  • • •

  LORD RADEN OF RIAN, a bear of a man, jumped to his feet, toppling his chair to the floor. “I say we stand against this Arkov, usurper that he is.”

  Lord Cavin, King Valen’s appointed Steward, looked out over the sitting Northern Council. Many nodded in agreement, while others were more cautious in their demeanor.

  “You mean, muster and march?” gasped corpulent Mayor Hein, his eyes wide with shock.

  An uneasy shifting rustled through the Council membership.

  “Perhaps not muster and march,” said Aarnson of Thol, dark-haired and dark-eyed in spite of his nationality, “but instead we resist paying any taxes and tariffs and tolls he might see fit to levy against us for upkeep of the kingdom.”

  The thought of retaining funds in their coffers brought nods from many.

  “Like the rebels in the Jillian Tors, eh?” said Axton, the slender, sharp-featured viscount from neighboring Wellen.

  Steward Cavin, a grey-haired man in his late middle age, frowned and said, “Raden, you realize you are advocating insurrection, rebellion, sedition, and treason, do you not?”

  Raden slammed a fist to the table. “’Tis no more than what Arkov himself did. If anyone should be held for treason, it is that . . . that Garian who now sits on a stolen throne.”

  A murmur of agreement muttered about the table.

  “If we do this,” said Axton, stroking his narrow chin, “then Arkov is likely to muster and march upon us.”

  Once again Mayor Hein quailed, and he clutched his chain of office as if to keep it from flying away.

  “Pfaugh,” scoffed Raden. “Let him. To march upon Challerain Keep will cost him more than he can bear.” Raden swept his arms wide in a gesture taking in the whole of Mont Challerain. “We live in the strongest fortress in Mithgar. Nothing, no one, will ever conquer this place.”

  Lord Cavin shook his head. “I would have said that about Caer Pendwyr, but look what happened there.”

  “How did Arkov manage to break that bastion?” asked young Lord Leland of Trellinath, the southernmost realm seated on the Northern Council.

  “Treachery, I say,” said Aarnson of Thol.

  “How know you this?” asked Cavin.

  For long moments it seemed as if Aarnson would not reply. But finally he said, “My, um, sources at the Caer tell me that the Garians came by sea, and, instead of peaceful cargo, the ships carried an army. It seems that by the time anyone knew that fact, a small force in the King’s Guard had treacherously swiveled the swing bridge outward, which let the Garian Army onto the spire just in time for another Garian squad to open the outer gates. And then, we
ll . . .”

  “By Hèl!” shouted Raden in fury, his face as red as his wild beard. He kicked his overturned chair aside and began storming up and down the chamber. “Treachery indeed.”

  “They came in Albaner ships,” said Aarnson.

  “Albaners?” demanded Raden.

  Aarnson nodded and added, “And it is said that there were men from Sarain and Hurn and Chabba in Arkov’s force.”

  An uproar filled the chamber, Raden cursing loudest of all. “Sarainian Fists of Rakka? Chabbanian Askars? Did they learn naught from the War of the Ban?”

  Viscount Axton said, “If Arkov has made pacts with our enemies of old—worshippers of Gyphon, that is—then ’tis Arkov who is the traitor here. If for naught else, he deserves to be put to the gallows.”

  Oaths of agreement burned the air, and Cavin let the uproar run its course. Finally, he said, “Is there aught else you can tell us, Lord Aarnson?”

  “Just that Queen Mairen was caught out in the courtyard and was immediately slain. King Valen and loyal King’s Guards mounted a sally and managed to retrieve her body, but in the effort the High King himself was sorely wounded—pierced through by an arrow. It took awhile, but finally the great bronze doors fell to the Garian battering ram, and then all were slaughtered therein.”

  “If all were slaughtered, Aarnson,” said Viscount Axton, “just how did your sources escape?”

  “They slipped out as the Garians rushed in,” said the Tholian Lord.

  “And no one else managed to flee?” asked Mayor Hein, dabbing an embroidered kerchief at his sweating face.

  “It seems that Vanidar Silverleaf was at the Caer,” said Aarnson, “but no one knows where he went.”