The Valisar Trilogy

4

Del Faren was in love. The object of this love was the daughter of the sculptor Sesaro, who had been commissioned no fewer than three times to produce a likeness in polished stone of King Brennus. Not even into his sixth decade and young for someone already of his stature, Sesaro’s soaring career as one of the realm’s most popular artisans had already been cut short by fear of war. He had been working on a new fountain, a vast piece that was to grace one of the new squares that the crown had commissioned be built. The city had sprawled way beyond its original boundaries and the central marketplace no longer offered ease of access for people. King Brennus, who prided himself on design, had made a bold decision to re-model the city. He had drawn up his ideas and a city architect had been appointed to oversee the grand project that would yield three main squares. The current central square would function solely as a meeting place for Penravians, while one of the new squares would become the political area of the city, where the realm’s dignatories, councillors, and lords would meet for discussion and where formal ceremonies would take place on behalf of the crown. The other new square would be purpose-built for the new covered marketplace. Brennus’s recent extended voyage and stay at the city of Percheron — as a guest of Zar Azal — had opened his eyes to the beauty of a bazaar. Although Penraven’s market would hardly be filled with the aroma of Percheron’s mysterious spices, Brennus wanted to borrow the concept that people could do their marketing under cover and that permanent shops could be set up for the wealthier merchants. He was intrigued by the cunning use of wind-driven wooden sails in the Percherese bazaar, which brought fresh air through the covered alleyways and drove the stale air back outside. The coolness of its marble impressed him and more than anything his breath had been taken away by the souk’s sheer beauty, and the idea that something so functional could still be a piece of art. He wanted to leave a similar legacy to what Azal’s great-grandfather, Joreb, had begun, in ensuring that Percheron would be a place of singular beauty for its people as much as the visitor. Brennus hoped that Penraven and its capital of Brighthelm would be talked about as a city of bold beauty and although his city would not sparkle pale and pastel as Percheron did, he had hopes that it would be nonetheless dazzling in its use of the local multi-coloured stone.

But all of these plans, including Sesaro’s beloved fountain featuring the famous serpent of Valisar, had now been suddenly made irrelevant by the arrival of war. The threat had not arrested the soldier Faren’s love for Tashi, however, and he still planned to ask for her hand in marriage, despite her protestations.

‘Del, you are very sweet and very handsome but my father will want to give my hand to someone who can afford me the type of life that he wishes for his only daughter,’ she had explained gently, once again, only the previous evening. ‘And now with war all but upon us …’

‘Don’t speak of that, my love,’ Faren had beseeched. ‘Let us only focus on how much we love each other.’

‘I cannot deny that I have had feelings for you but we must be sensible. You are a foot soldier.’

‘An aspiring archer,’ he corrected.

She had nodded her acknowledgment as she continued. ‘Nevertheless, if I am to marry a military man my father would agree to nothing less than commander. I hear the legate needs a new wife,’ she had admitted, laughing coquettishly.

He had known in his heart that Sesaro would not be impressed by a mere archer, but he had remained undaunted, determined that he would win her, come what may. He had grabbed her around the waist and kissed her neck as she had tried to squirm away from his touch. ‘Bah, surely your father would want you to marry someone who is nineteen, not thirty years older? I will give you strong sons who will continue your father’s art and my military career, and daughters as beautiful as their mother to take care of their grandfather in his dotage.’

She had smiled at this. He had continued. ‘I have prospects, Tashi. I can be a major in a few years. Just watch me rise through the ranks with my courage and cunning.’ He had arched an eyebrow on the last word, laced his voice with a conspiratorial tone to amuse her, and pressed on. ‘We can have our own farm. I will ensure I’m based here in Brighthelm, we can —’

‘Del, you are dreaming. The barbarian is on our doorstep. This is no time to talk of marriage or children, farms or futures. We have to worry about surviving tomorrow. I beg you, stop this.’

‘I shall speak to your father.’

‘No!’

‘Why?’

‘I have told you why. Now, please, you must leave. I have errands to run and you surely have somewhere to be, knowing what our realm faces.’ And she had pulled herself from his grip, clearly growing tired of the ardent kisses he had been peppering on her sweet-smelling neck.

‘Tashi, I love you!’ he had called to her retreating back.

And she had turned. ‘I know, but it’s hopeless. You’re a boy. My father wants me to marry a man. I cannot see you again.’

What Tashi hadn’t explained to her besotted young lover was that Sesaro had already promised her to another, and it was only by chance that Faren discovered the truth later in the day. His commander had taken him off his usual duties to help another unit that was working on the battlements. ‘Your archery skills are put to far better use up on top, Faren,’ the commander had said. ‘Tell Commander Jobe that I have sent you. We need keen eyes and steady hands up there.’

Faren had leapt at the chance. If he acquitted himself well he could leapfrog perhaps even to captain, and that alone would prove to Tashi’s family that he was worth taking note of. Arriving at the battlements, he had presented himself to Jobe, who had nodded his happiness to have another talented archer at his disposal. He had been told to meet the others and to choose a weapon that suited his preferred weight and bow tension.

Faren had been in the process of doing this when he overheard several of the men joking together.

‘… she’s a beauty, ripe and ready,’ one of the men had said.

Another gave a low whistle. ‘She makes me feel weak whenever I glimpse her running through the market on her errands. The old man’s already given his permission, even provided the ring. It was her mother’s apparently so the lucky arse doesn’t even have to buy that and let’s face it he can afford anything he likes with who his friend is.’

The first nodded. ‘I’d give my left nut for a night with her.’

This had made the four men laugh and prompted a rush of lewd comments.

‘Ssh, here comes the captain.’

Faren had noticed a tall man walk up. ‘And what are you lot up to?’

‘Just checking the tensions on the bows, sir.’

Faren watched the captain’s scowl soften. ‘Listen, I know this is a rough time for all of us so I don’t mean to spoil what little time you have left for normal life. It’s all about to change dramatically and I wish it wasn’t so, but the legate’s aiming to have a parley. We should know by tonight exactly what we’re in for.’

‘Is he marrying her, then, captain, before the parley?’ the first soldier had asked, cheekily.

‘That’s none of your business, Brek. What the legate does is his affair.’ The captain’s mouth twitched at the corners. ‘But I think I would, war or not!’

This comment appeared to give the men permission to relax and they began to chuckle among themselves about how the ‘old man’ would need to take horse pills to keep his new bride satisfied in the marital bed. The jesting had turned darker, one man commenting that he’d better hurry up and enjoy her delights because Loethar wouldn’t spare him once the barbarian arrived.

Faren had only been half listening to the jesting when he heard one of the men mutter the name Sesaro. And then he heard the captain murmur ‘Tashi’ and his attention was more than pricked — it had become riveted. The more he listened, the more his mood had plummeted from intrigued, to alarmed, to dismayed and finally to enraged. They were talking about his prospective wife; it was Tashi to whom they had been making bawdy reference. And if he was to believe their gossip, then Sesaro had promised Tashi to Legate De Vis. It couldn’t be true!

‘You, Faren! What are you staring at?’ The captain shouted, noticing Faren’s attention.

‘Sir! Er, sorry, I was far away.’

‘Lo strike me, soldier, how can we rely on you to shoot straight if you aren’t even focused on your bow?’

‘Sorry, sir.’

The captain had sighed. ‘It’s all right, Faren. I think we’re all a bit jumpy.’

‘I couldn’t help overhearing, sir.’

His superior’s expression had turned sour. ‘Well, we shouldn’t be discussing Legate De Vis’s personal life.’

‘Do you mind my asking, though, sir, was this Tashi, Sesaro’s daughter? I know her but she hasn’t mentioned anything about a betrothal to me.’

‘It’s not my business to pass on private information, Archer Faren. You know that.’

‘I do sir, sorry sir, but Tashi is a friend and it might explain why she has seemed distant and worried,’ Faren had lied. ‘I thought she was fretting over the war —’

‘And I don’t doubt she is!’ the captain cut in.

‘Yes, sir, but I think from what the other men were saying that she’s probably upset about the legate.’

‘And you think you can help, do you, Faren?’

Faren shrugged, his rage burning but tightly disguised. ‘I can try. We grew up together, you see, so she trusts me.’

‘There’s really nothing you can do, Faren. You misunderstand. The reluctance is not on the part of Sesaro’s daughter. Her hand is already given. She is — from what I can gather — the enthusiastic partner to this potential marriage. It’s Legate De Vis who hesitates, so unless you have the ear of the legate and can advise him in his love life, I would suggest you get back to tightening that bow and worrying about landing real arrows into the hearts of our enemy rather than make-believe ones into those of lovers.’

So it was true. As the captain left him with a friendly squeeze to his arm, Faren had bristled with fury. That was why Tashi had cooled off toward him these past few weeks; she had only been playing with him, teasing him and enjoying his attention, his gifts, his youth. She’d hinted as much earlier today. He had to see her again; hear it from her lips, watch her head hang with shame as she explained herself.

‘Sir?’

‘You again, Faren?’

‘The wax is a bit dry. I think I shall need a fresh pot from the stores.’

‘You don’t need my permission,’ the captain had said, his tone brisk and slightly annoyed.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Faren said, hurrying towards the stairs.

‘Why they send up the dungeon boys I don’t know,’ the captain murmured under his breath. ‘I think they get overawed, shooting their bows up this high.’

‘They’ll be the death of us, right, captain?’ someone had quipped and everyone who heard it grinned, including Faren. But Faren’s had been the grim smile of the executioner.

The day had passed in a strange string of hours for Gavriel, linking weapons practice, a brief ride around the castle park, and kicking around leather stretched over a ball framework of the dried, highly flexible asprey reeds that held an inflated, waxed sheep’s bladder. This more frenzied activity had been punctuated by various meals, a visit to the chapel to say a prayer and light another candle for the dead princess and a meeting with the royal tutors who apologised that studies had been cancelled until further notice. All of this was highly unusual for Gavriel, of course, but for the prince much of it was a normal day’s proceedings, without the dreaded letters, numbers, and language. After the main meal of their day, which they had shared alone in Leo’s chambers, and as dusk gave way to twilight, Gavriel saw to it that the prince cleaned himself up, changed into fresh clothes and was presented neat and tidy to the queen. It had been an hour, probably more, since Gavriel had delivered the boy to the hollow, all-knowing aide known simply as Freath who greeted them at the entrance to Queen Iselda’s suite.

‘Good evening, majesty,’ he had said in his slow baritone. He glanced toward Gavriel, his gaze sliding quickly away.

Young though he was, Leo was a perceptive child and missed little. ‘Hello, Freath. I now have a full-time minder. This is Gavriel De Vis — I think you know his father.’

‘Indeed, I do,’ the man had said, not offering a hand. ‘You may wait outside for Prince Leonel,’ he said to Gavriel, who sensed the prince wince at the use of his full name.

As far as Gavriel knew, everyone disliked Freath, including Gavriel’s father, who was arguably the most generous person he knew. Seemingly ghostlike, the servant had been at the palace for a long time and never seemed to change his intimidating demeanour. Why the queen tolerated him was a mystery but he had been her right hand since Brennus had made Iselda his bride, fifteen years previous.

Leo had been swallowed up into the doorway that Freath now blocked so Gavriel could do little more than snatch a glimpse inside but he smelled the waft of perfume, and spied soft colours and flower arrangements. The door was closed by Genrie as she emerged from the queen’s chambers.

‘You again,’ she said.

Gavriel saw no smirk, heard no disdain in her tone, but even so the greeting was hardly friendly. ‘Yes. Consider me Prince Leo’s shadow.’

She regarded him, saying nothing and Gavriel felt his throat go dry. She really was very pretty. ‘Is that what you always aspired to be, Master De Vis? A nurserymaid to Prince Leonel?’

Gavriel adopted one of Corbel’s famous expressionless stares, refusing to be baited. ‘Firstly, he’s almost thirteen and needing to mature fast considering the situation we find ourselves in. Secondly, Lo willing he’s our next king and the more palace people who treat him as a potential ruler and not a child, the better.’

‘And you believe that the crown prince will make it to the throne?’ Again, she spoke evenly, no derision in her tone at all. And yet somehow it still sounded like a rhetorical question.

He answered it anyway. ‘I do. One day.’

She considered him with interest, a hand on her hip. ‘And the marauder they call Loethar can —’

‘Kiss my arse,’ Gavriel finished for her. He grinned and was delighted to win a smile from her.

She nodded. ‘I hope your humour keeps you safe.’

‘Marry me, Genrie,’ he teased, moving quickly to stand by her, even daring to circle her waist. ‘And we can run away from war and —’

‘Raise the crown prince together, I suppose?’

Gavriel laughed.

‘You’re not much older than he is,’ she said, a trace of condescension in her voice.

‘I’m seventeen summertides,’ he protested, feigning indignation. ‘More than enough.’

‘Not for me, Master De Vis,’ she replied, not unkindly. Untangling herself, she made to move away. ‘It takes more than bravado to impress this servant,’ she added.

‘Like what? Oh come on, Genrie. May I kiss you — not here, admittedly, although if you insist —’

‘I like older men, Master De Vis,’ she cut him off.

He made a face of disgust. ‘Like Master Freath, perhaps. Skin like parchment, teeth in decay, that hunched back.’

Her amusement vanished. ‘He’s none of those things. I’d hazard that he’s barely a few years older than our king.’

‘I was jesting, Genrie. But don’t be fooled by Freath. He strikes me as slippery, and I don’t trust him. Be careful.’

Genrie’s gaze narrowed. ‘I have no reason to mistrust the queen’s aide, Master De Vis.’

‘Just be warned. Now how about that kiss?’

Genrie flashed a brief smile, which was gone in a blink. Suddenly she was back to her briskly efficient self. ‘Good day, Master De Vis. In case you were wondering, there are no access points into or out of the queen’s chambers other than this one. Prince Leonel is safe.’

Gavriel nodded. ‘For now perhaps,’ he replied sadly, settling back to wait.

Leo finally emerged from his mother’s suite. His once almost white infant hair had darkened to a deep golden and the soft sprinkling of freckles had been lost beneath the browning of the sun. Gavriel felt sorry that the young prince needed to grow up much faster than even a royal normally would if he was to survive.

Leo looked grave; all the former bravado and humour had fled.

‘How is she?’ Gavriel asked, pushing away from the wall against which he’d been leaning.

‘Miserable. Lost, I think.’

‘Is she coming to your sister’s funeral?’

Leo shook his head. ‘Mother said she died without her help and hardly needs her now. Is that cruel, do you think?’

‘No, Leo, that’s grief. You’ll learn all about this in years to come,’ Gavriel said, feeling far too wise for his years all of a sudden. But then he’d learned enough about grief through his father, who had never stopped mourning Eril, their mother. He could counsel with genuine wisdom on how grief hardens someone, as it had hardened Regor de Vis. ‘Come on, I’ll take you up to the roof. It might be a while before we can do that again and then you can have some supper.’

‘Gav, when the time comes that you keep speaking about, what is the plan?’

Gavriel looked around, ensuring they could not be overheard. ‘We escape through the kitchens and the cellars. My father has worked out our route. We take nothing, Leo, remember that. Just the small sack you’ve already assembled.’

‘It’s just that when that time comes it probably means my father will be dead.’ He said it so flatly and it sounded so raw that Gavriel could do little other than to take a breath. Leo continued, unaware of his keeper’s discomfort. ‘And if father is dead that means only one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I am king,’ he replied, his large blue eyes looking up at Gavriel intently.

‘Yes, but —’

‘And a king does not run from his own palace.’

‘Leo, you know we cannot risk you,’ Gavriel said, feeling flustered. He ran his hand through his long hair. ‘There isn’t a good time to discuss what might happen should your father die but you have raised the issue so let’s talk about it now.’

‘Should father die, I would be King of Penraven,’ the prince reiterated. ‘That means you will do as I say, rather than the other way around,’ he added. There was nothing overbearing in what he said even though the words sounded high-handed, and yet Gavriel felt a fresh chill of worry creep through him.

‘But while your father is alive we all have to do as he says — and he has instructed that no matter what you say or do, I am to get you away from here once the fighting begins.’

‘But listen, Gav —’

‘Leo, if we leave it too late, then they will kill you too. Do you understand this?’

The prince nodded solemnly.

‘We cannot risk that the entire Valisar line is ended. You have to accept this. I know it’s hard and I know you want to be brave and be like your father and stay. I know you don’t want to leave your mother either but you are portable, almost invisible. They are not. I will carry you on my back if I have to but I know I can get you away, no one else. This is what everything is about — it’s about saving your life, protecting the line.’

‘And you would give up your life for it?’

‘If I have to, yes. That’s what honour is about; it’s what loyalty is and it’s the responsibility that comes with being one of the king’s nobles …’ He could see he was losing the boy’s attention with the rhetoric but he was thinking aloud for his own benefit now. He didn’t want to die. He certainly didn’t want his father to lay down his life so easily. And he definitely didn’t feel as brave as Corbel seemed to think he could be. The truth of it was that Gavriel was feeling sad. That was it. It hit him hard and he took a deep breath, only realising minutes later that the prince was shaking him.

‘Sorry, highness.’

‘Leo,’ the prince corrected. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Just thinking. Nothing important,’ Gavriel lied bleakly.

5

That evening, up on the battlements, standing briefly alongside his father while the prince was kept well out of sight admiring the weapons and talking to some of the soldiers, Gavriel watched with a sense of doom as a rider approached the main gate. He wore the insignia of Barronel but carried no weapon and yelled to the gatekeeper that he was one of the captains from the Barronel Guard. He looked so bedraggled that it was little wonder he drew only jeers from onlookers. But he persisted, until Gavriel heard his father say to one of his own captains that someone should see what he had to say. One of the archers listening nearby, spoke up hesitantly.

‘Er, sir?’

‘Yes,’ the legate said brusquely, annoyed by the interruption.

‘I think I know that man.’

‘You do?’

The archer nodded. ‘I think he is my brother-in-law.’

‘What?’

‘Sir, I, er, I think he’s married to my eldest sister. She left to live in Barronel a decade ago. I’ve only met him twice but I think it’s him.’

‘It’s dark, man. How can you be sure?’

‘His horse, sir,’ the archer said. ‘It’s a cantankerous brute. I recognise it by that white flame on its forelock and the splash of white at its right ankle. It was always an odd-looking beast.’

‘You’re sure now?’

The archer shrugged. ‘I believe it’s him.’