Dawn of the Dreamsmith (The Raven's Tale Book 1) (54 page)

Adelmar continued to scowl down upon the city. “I shall be glad to leave this place,” he growled.

“Really?” Ellara sighed. “I was just thinking how nice it is to be among normal people again, after having nobody but soldiers to talk to for the last two years.”

He grunted in response. “What is normal, I ask you? The simpletons that live their entire lives in ignorance of the way the world works? Or the fawning lackeys that pretend to offer advice but tell you nothing you don’t wish to hear? Living among your troops... there is an honesty to it that the city lacks. There is an enemy, and you fight him together, united by a common purpose.” He smiled grimly, recalling his father’s words to him at the palace days before.

Ellara whispered up behind him, her silk dress swishing as she moved, and wrapped her arms around his chest. “So gloomy today,” she said. “What happened to bring this mood on?”

Adelmar sighed. His wife, always sweet and supportive, never failed to ease whatever troubled him. “It is nothing. A few problems with preparing our forces for departure, but everything has been resolved.”

“Good. Because tonight is the ceremony at the Order’s tower that your father wanted you to attend, so we’re to leave tomorrow are we not?”

He frowned and rubbed his eyes. That was tonight? He had spent several days either at the barracks or at the large army camp beyond the city’s walls, grabbing an hour or two of sleep whenever and wherever he was able. He’d lost track of the time, somehow. “I had best get ready then, I suppose.”

Ellara laughed. “You sound like a man on the way to his execution, dear.”

“That is how it feels.” He turned and embraced his wife. Her easy manner had done much to relieve his disquiet about what he had seen in the stables. “Where are the girls?”

“In their room,” Ellara replied. “Marie is helping them to pack their belongings, then she’ll put them to bed and stay with them until we return. Not that I expect they’ll be asleep, they were still bouncing around after spending the day shopping, the last time I checked on them.”

He let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Then she has her work cut out.” In truth, he liked the governess Ellara had found for the girls. She had a hard edge that he believed would help instil some discipline in his daughters. He let go of his wife and went to leave the room, when she called him back.

“Where do you think you’re going, dearest?”

He looked at her as if she had lost her mind. “The tower,” he spluttered. “The ceremony.”

Ellara shook her head and smiled. “Not wearing that old armour,” she chided. “Not this time. I’ve laid you out something much more appropriate for the occasion.”

Adelmar’s eyes fell upon the bed, where the stylish, formal court clothes he had ignored previously had made an unwelcome reappearance. He groaned. If he had sounded like a man going to his execution before, he now felt like one attending his own funeral.

It was worse than that, he decided soon after, when he and Ellara stepped from their carriage in the richly decorated plaza that surrounded the Spire. A dead man, after all, was past the point of discomfort, whereas Adelmar itched and chafed seemingly all over. The shirt was buttoned too high against his throat, the laces of the deep red doublet bound him too tightly, and the padded breeches and hose were too thin, causing him to shiver in the winter wind. The cape he wore offered no protection either, covering as it did just one shoulder and ending a clear hand’s width above his rump. The worst, though, was the shoes. They squeezed his feet, while the points ended some six inches after his toes. The entire outfit was ridiculous, in his opinion, and he found little comfort in seeing the other nobles making their way to the tower dressed in similar fashion.

He glanced at Ellara. She at least was in her element. She had always adored the court functions that he shunned, and having at last got him into an ensemble that met with her approval she seemed determined to milk the occasion.

After they had left their carriage, not another couple entered her eyesight without being greeted warmly. They didn’t so much cross the plaza as orbit it, drawing closer to the tower only to veer away again as somebody else caught her eye. Adelmar smiled stiffly as Ellara gossiped endlessly with everyone, learning in a few minutes everything about their current situation, the state of their family and a dozen other tidbits of useless information he cared for not in the least. If she noticed his reticence, then she did not show it, nor cut short her conversations with the Order’s other guests.

He found himself glancing up at the enormous construction they were present to celebrate. The scale of it boggled the mind. Sitting atop a flight of wide stone steps that had been scrubbed clean for the occasion, the Spire stretched two hundred feet above even the imperial palace at its pinnacle. Having never before been inside its walls, he couldn’t say how many floors were inside; thirty at least, he guessed, if not more. Being so tall, there wasn’t a point in the city from which it was not visible. It towered over all else, a waypoint towards Ehrenburg for all travellers, whether they were coming by land or sea.

Clusters of chattering dignitaries and noble guests stood in knots around the plaza before the steps, while the great wooden double doors of the tower itself remained closed. Large braziers were arrayed around the square, burning brightly. They were the sole acknowledgement of the season, and the only respite from the icy wind that blew across the square.

Adelmar glowered at the fires. “What’s this, the Archon sees fit to make his betters wait on his doorstep?” he muttered bitterly. “No doubt while he warms his feet before his hearth within.”

“Hush dear,” chided Ellara, during one of the rare moments she was paying attention to her husband beside her. “I’m sure there’s a reason for it.”

Adelmar relented, shivering. A pale-robed novice appeared at his elbow, proffering crystal glasses of golden wine. This was gratefully received by Ellara, who promptly disappeared into the throng to speak to somebody else who had caught her eye.

Now alone, Adelmar gazed disapprovingly around the assembled figures. The thought of making idle small talk with people he mostly held in contempt did not appeal to him greatly. Then he spotted a face in the crowd, one he did wish to have words with. The maudlin, hangdog features of Lord Aubrey, Baron of Bard’s Lea were instantly recognisable. The baron was deep in conversation with a minor lordling Adelmar was not familiar with, who bowed an apology and made himself scarce as he approached them.

“Enjoying the party, Sheridan?” Adelmar asked, with forced geniality.

Lord Aubrey looked alarmed at being singled out for attention, and then smiled wanly. “Always happy to support the Order, Highness. I trust you are well?”

“Never better.” He regarded the baron for a few moments, enjoying his discomfort. “Looking forward to departing on the morrow.”

“Ah, yes, of course. The war.” The baron’s tone was detached. He might almost have been talking about something as mundane as his supper rather than the conflict brewing to the south. “I imagine readying the Legion has taken up much of your time this past week.”

“Indeed, indeed. I’ve been meaning to speak to you about that, in fact.” A panicky look came into the baron’s eyes. “I was at the mustering grounds outside the city this very morning, as it happens, to watch the troops being put through their paces,” Adelmar continued, placing a companionable hand on Lord Aubrey’s shoulder. “And I have to say that the levies from Bard’s Lea really stood out.”

“You flatter me, Highness, I-”

“An utter bloody shambles,” Adelmar interrupted. He smiled pleasantly, but the pressure from his hand increased until the baron winced. “Never in my life have I seen such an inept display. I’m worried that if I send them into battle they’ll do more damage to my own men than the enemy.”

Beads of sweat began to appear on the baron’s brow. “I am sorry, Highness. The people of Bard’s Lea are not soldiers. We are but simple farmers, tradespeople. I sent two hundred men, as the Treaty stipulates, but-”

“But they’re a damned menace,” Adelmar finished. “I understand yours are not a martial people, Sheridan. That’s why the Treaty is most important to those like Bard’s Lea. You require the Legion to protect your lands, do you not? All we ask in return is that in times of war, those we protect help to supplement the Legion’s numbers.”

“Which we have done, Highness.” There was a wheedling tone to the baron’s voice. “You saw for yourself that we sent as many men as we are required to do.”

“Yet I am forced to wonder whether you have sent the best men available, or whether there are now markedly fewer cripples and idiots on the streets of Bard’s Lea.” Adelmar released the baron’s shoulder. “We will have to whip them into shape as we march, and like all the levies they will serve under Legion commanders. But in their case I wonder if they don’t need an added incentive to fight.”

“Highness? I am not sure I follow your meaning.”

“I find that a reminder of why they are fighting can make up for a shortfall in training. A constant reminder among their own ranks.” Adelmar smiled. “You have a son, do you not?”

Understanding dawned on the baron’s face and he began to tremble. “Domenic? But he is just a boy.”

“Really? I understood he recently saw his fourteenth summer. I had bloodied my blade by the time I was ten.”

“We can’t all be as naturally gifted in the arts of war as you, Highness,” the baron simpered. “Domenic has some training, yes, but he is not ready to take part in a campaign.”

“Nevertheless, the boy will be outside the city gates by dawn tomorrow, or you will be in breach of the Treaty and we will have no choice but to withdraw Legion support from your lands.” He smiled. “On an unrelated note, I understand the Duke of Brackenwood recently petitioned my father on some minor matter. Something to do with an ancestor who married into your family, and a claim dispute of some kind. He seemed quite worked up about it, poor chap. Good evening my lord.”

The baron smiled nervously and made his way further into the crowd, his face ashen. Adelmar watched him go with a light heart. The exchange had left him in a better mood than he had been in for days.

That ended abruptly, however, when a familiar voice cried out behind him. “Is that my brother I see, or has a peacock escaped from the palace gardens?”

Adelmar turned and saw Jarrod standing there, his face lit up by a silly, inebriated grin. “Hello Jarrod.”

His younger brother tittered foolishly. “Poor Addled, you are a sight. I’ve seen peeled crabs that look happier to be stripped of their armour. No wonder you look like a man on the way to his execution.”

“A fine jest, brother.” Adelmar smiled nastily. “Unfortunately my wife beat you to it.”

Jarrod’s mouth twisted with disgust. “Ugh, don’t tell me I’m becoming predictable. I shall have to get out my whetstone later to sharpen my wit.” He hiccupped. “I blame the wine.”

“Is that so? I would have thought you were quite accustomed by now to acting the drunken buffoon.”

“No act, I assure you,” the young prince slurred. “By the way, how are my nieces? It was quite a surprise to see them in the artisans’ quarter earlier today.”

Adelmar frowned. He had assumed they had gone to the markets. He would have words later with their governess. The thought of them in one of the rougher districts of the city did not please him. “And what were you doing there?” he asked gruffly. “Disgracing yourself in some ale-sodden gutter tavern, no doubt.”

Jarrod’s eyes flashed mischievously. “You wound me brother,” he said, affecting a tone of mock-offence.

“Why weren’t you with your troops at their barracks? You do realise we leave the city at dawn tomorrow. Are they ready?”

Jarrod stifled a yawn. “I haven’t the least notion. I’ve left all of that to Trayner. It bores me stiff, I’m afraid. I’m sure it’s all in hand.”

“I won’t stand for mockery, Jarrod.” Adelmar’s genial veneer vanished. He loomed threateningly over his brother. “We’re going to war. I won’t have you turning this campaign into a circus with your antics.”

His brother sipped delicately from his glass, unimpressed. “Yes, yes, it’s all very serious, I’m sure. Don’t worry, when the arrows start to fly I’ll be on my best behaviour. I’m very attached to my life and don’t intend to throw it away just yet.”

Adelmar was at a loss as to why his brother had even been put forward for the campaign. His father had muttered something about seasoning and toughening him up, but even he had not sounded entirely convinced. He smiled grimly. Well, let the wastrel play at war for a little while, he would discover the hard realities of military life soon enough. He was about to say more, when the sound of chanting carried across the square.

All heads turned towards the tower, as the double doors were pulled open and rows of brown-robed Brothers emerged. Their heads were bent low as they came towards the top of the stair, deep voices blending with one another until the words themselves became a jumble.

Between them strode the Archon, his expression solemn but his green eyes dancing in jubilation. He had chosen ceremonial robes of the most brilliant white for the occasion, dazzling the onlookers as the golden light of the sunset struck him. Even Adelmar was forced to admit, backed as he was by the tallest man-made structure in the realm, the cleric was an impressive sight.

The Archon stood watching them for a few moments, until the Brothers fanned out behind him ceased their chant, and silence fell over the square. It was then that he began his address, his strong voice carrying to every corner of the plaza.