Dawn of the Dreamsmith (The Raven's Tale Book 1) (66 page)

After a while, his eyelids began to droop once more and he laid down upon his bunk. However, as tired as he was, he found that sleep would still not come. He tossed and turned, his mind plagued with a procession of thoughts and images. Amelie’s health. The green crystal he had taken from her and her frenzied response. The Order and their purpose. The Archon, ever hovering behind his father, part of his councils. Always nudging matters of policy along paths that benefited the Order in some way. For some reason, the face of his brother kept floating to the forefront of his mind.

As he lay, Adelmar’s mind raced.
Something Jarrod said to me, that night at the Spire.
He strained to recall his brother’s words.
He mentioned meeting Milly and Rose in the artisans’ quarter,
he thought,
I would stake my life on it.
Was it possible? Had Jarrod known about the pendant? A cold certainty stole over him. He remembered his brother’s smug, knowing expression that evening. At the time he had dismissed it as Jarrod’s usual insolent manner, but now he wondered.
He knew.

Another flash, this time of the younger prince offering him a gift; a chain and green crystal as large as a pigeon’s egg.
By the Divine’s eyes, did he give her the necklace himself?

It seemed an impossible notion. For all his faults, Jarrod would never intentionally harm his own family, would he? Adelmar rubbed his face, trying to massage away the fatigue that clouded his judgement.

Of a sudden, he decided that he needed to speak to Jarrod, perhaps even confront him with his suspicions and see how he reacted. He dressed, his skin chafing against the dampness of his clothes, and ventured out into the yard. Other, smaller tents had sprung up from the ground like mushrooms, and he picked his way between them. Rain continued to fall, but at least was lighter than the storm that had not let up for most of that day.

Before he reached the inn, a shrill scream pierced the night. It came from within the wooden building, and Adelmar raced towards the sound, almost wrenching the door from its hinges in his haste. The lower floor of the inn was by now almost deserted, save for a knot of soldiers from his father’s household guard loitering by the stairs. The innkeeper sat at a bench nearby, wringing his hands.

Adelmar frowned and moved towards the stair. The soldiers straightened as he approached, but Trayner, his pockmarked face blank, stepped forward to block his path. There was another sob, from the upper landing. Adelmar roughly shoved the man aside, making a mental note to punish him later for his insubordination. He swarmed up the stairs, taking the steps three at a time. Two more guardsmen were stationed outside one of the rooms, but after taking one look at his face they stepped aside as he approached.

With a snarl, he tore open the door and marched inside, before stopping in his tracks as his mind tried to take in the scene that confronted him. Jarrod, wearing only his undershirt, stood in the middle of the room, breathing heavily. In his hand was his riding crop. But Adelmar’s eyes were fixed on the bed, where a naked, trembling figure lay curled. His brain registered the flame-red hair and the bedsheets flecked with blood.
By the Divine, she’s barely older than Amelie,
he thought.

“Addled?” Jarrod began, panting hard. “What are you-”

Enraged, Adelmar stormed towards his brother. With his fist clenched, he struck out at Jarrod’s face and sent him sprawling to the floor. “Have you lost your mind?” the younger prince spat, his lip bloody. “You would dare raise your hands against a prince of the realm?”

A red mist fogged Adelmar’s mind. With a roar, he grabbed his brother by the neck and dragged him across the floor towards the door. Jarrod shrieked. “Where are you taking me?”

“You call yourself a prince?” Adelmar growled, as he pulled his brother down the stairs in a tumble of limbs. He noted that Trayner and the other guardsmen had fled. “You’re a disgrace. An animal!” He kicked open the inn’s door. “You’re fit for nothing but to crawl in the mud and filth with the other beasts.”

With that, he flung Jarrod out into the yard, where he landed with a squelch. The young prince scrambled to his knees, his shirt wet through and streaked with mud. “You’ll pay for this,” he screamed. “When father learns of this, he’ll order you banished...”

Adelmar marched out into the rain and dealt Jarrod a stinging slap across his face. The sound of it rang out across the yard. “I should gut you where you sit!” he roared. “If you were any other man your blood would already be upon my blade. You talk of banishment? Father may have turned a blind eye to your depravity, but I will not. I will not suffer your presence in my army a moment longer. Take your horse and go. Now, before I change my mind and unsheath my sword.”

Jarrod’s shoulders slumped, and Adelmar turned back towards the inn. But before he could take a step, a movement behind made him turn. At the same moment, Jarrod lunged at him, a knife in his hand. The Divine was smiling on him then, Adelmar thought later. Had he not heard his brother’s foot in a puddle, the blade would have plunged into his back. Instead, it raked harmlessly down the front of his breastplate.

Adelmar struck out instinctively. This time his punch caught Jarrod on the side of his head. The younger prince squealed and fell to the ground. The knife flew off into the darkness, where it landed with a splash. Men started to emerge from the tents nearby as Jarrod leapt back to his feet and charged at Adelmar once again.

Jarrod was no soldier, it was true, but if Adelmar had thought him weak then he quickly learned his mistake. His brother’s first blow made his nose explode with pain, sending him off-balance. The second connected with his stomach, knocking the wind from his lungs. Adelmar responded by wrapping his arms around the younger prince and, locked together, they fell. A crowd gathered around them as they grappled in the mud. Adelmar was the stronger, he knew, but Jarrod was as slippery as an eel and more than willing to use his teeth or nails to gain an advantage.

Half-blinded by the rain and the thick mud of the yard, Adelmar fought by instinct. More by luck than design, one of his flailing fists caught the younger prince on the jaw, rocking his head to one side. Adelmar was upon him in an instant, kneeling on his brother’s back and grasping him by the hair. With a bestial roar he slammed Jarrod’s face into the sopping earth, then held him down in a puddle as he struggled to rise. Jarrod spluttered in the water and fought like a man possessed, but Adelmar held him firmly. As Jarrod’s movements began to weaken, he lifted him again and threw his limp body to one side. When Adelmar clambered upright once more and saw his brother’s chest rise feebly as he drew breath, he wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or disappointed that he had not perished.

Seeing that the fight was over, Trayner and another guardsman ran to the prince’s side and hauled him to his feet. Jarrod was barely recognisable, his face bruised and streaked with mud and blood, while one eye was already almost swollen shut. Adelmar hadn’t escaped any more lightly and was almost certain his nose was broken. “Leave, tonight,” he rasped. “Take only what you wear and two guards to escort you back to the city. Enjoy your last days of luxury, Jarrod, for they will be your last. When I return there will be a reckoning.”

Jarrod leered at him with bloodied teeth. “As you wish,
brother
,” he hissed. Before he was taken away, Adelmar saw him lean close to his grizzled adjutant and murmur some instruction.

In the days that followed, as the army continued its march south, Adelmar did not think too deeply upon the words he had overheard his brother muttering. The message had been cryptic and in truth he had forgotten them almost as soon as they had been uttered: “When the time is right.”

CHAPTER 27

R
aised as he was on the tiny island of Stelys in the middle of the ocean, among fewer than a hundred Brothers and novices of the Order, Cole would be the first to admit that his knowledge of the Empire’s principal cities was limited. When he had first laid astonished eyes on Hunter’s Watch, home to some five thousand souls, to his mind it seemed almost impossibly huge.

That memory came back to him now as they approached the walls of Strathearn. The scale of it had been difficult to comprehend from the air, when the Aevir had carried he and Raven to within half a day’s hike of the north gate. It was enormous, that much had been obvious, but it wasn’t until they began to swoop down from the clouds back towards the land that the size of the lowland city dawned on him.

Where the Watch was surrounded by a wooden palisade, the great stone walls of Strathearn dwarfed the landscape around them. A hundred feet high, it also seemed to stretch on forever, its length regularly interspersed with even taller watchtowers. Atop these patrolled the silhouettes of archers, at this distance as small as insects.

Cole gawped at the sight. As their feet crunched through the snow, Raven told him more about the city they approached. With a population approaching twenty thousand, within the Empire it was second in size only to Ehrenburg. It was a city of two halves, straddling the Lannair river. On the north side of the river lived the commoners; the tradespeople, servants and lesser merchants. The south bank, however, was filled with the estates belonging to the nobility and wealthy merchants who, while not part of the ruling class, nevertheless carried much influence both within the city and at the imperial court. It was on this side of the river that the great keep of Strathearn stood, sat upon a rocky mount that looked down upon the rest of the city, Ben Laidir. It had never been conquered.

Cole peered up again at the mighty stone walls. “I can believe that,” he said.

Raven shook her head, as she picked her way between tussocks hidden beneath the blanket of snow. The small mounds seemed to cover the heath across which they hiked, and Cole had lost his footing to them several times already. “It’s not what you think,” she told him. “It’s true that the walls are strong, but no army has ever put them to the test.”

“What do you mean?”

“In ancient times, the lowlands was its own kingdom, and Strathearn was its capital,” Raven told him. “Its position is strong; the river prevents it from being easily surrounded, the lands surrounding it are fertile enough for farmland and livestock and the river and lochs are productive. Were it not for Ehrenburg to the south, it might have one day itself have become the heart of an empire.”

An expression Cole had heard the sailors of Westcove using came to his mind then. “There’s always a bigger fish.”

Raven smiled. “While Strathearn was the wealthiest and most powerful of the lowland cities, it is also the furthest south, the closest to Ehrenburg. As they watched the spread of the Empire, the Maccallams of Strathearn were left facing a dilemma. Should they stand against this growing power? The Legion was already too strong, and even with a defensible position they knew their walls could not stand against them forever. Eventually, the Legion did march north, and brought with them something the lowland king never anticipated.”

“What was that?”

“An offer of alliance with the Golden Throne,” Raven replied. “If he laid aside his crown and bent the knee, then as long as Strathearn never raised banners against Ehrenburg the Legion would never lay siege to its walls, and its rulers would be raised high within the imperial court.”

“And so the king became a duke.”

Raven nodded. “The alliance has never been broken,” she said. “When Caderyn launched his rebellion, the Duke of Strathearn’s ears were deaf to his calls for aid. Instead, he abided by the treaty his ancestor had signed, and a number of those who fought against the north did so beneath Maccallam banners. There has been a great distrust ever since between Strathearn and the other lowland cities. The current duchess is a distant cousin of Emperor Maximilen.”

Cole mulled over the tale. “It must have been a difficult decision for him to turn his back on his own people,” he said eventually.

“The first Duke of Strathearn was reviled as a traitor to the lowlands, and hailed as a hero in Ehrenburg,” Raven said. “I think that he would have thought of himself as a pragmatist; that with an army on his doorstep he was left with little choice. They still bear the pain of the decision that was made, just as other cities still bear the scars of the failed rebellion. The people of Strathearn are proud, but their identity is muddled. It’s often said that nobody knows whether they’re the first city of the north, or the last of the south.”

Their path carried them a while later to a road, along which several laden wagons plodded. They turned to follow it, hoping that it would prove easier going, but the snow that had settled upon it had been ground into a muddy slush. In only a short time, Cole’s boots, already sodden from their hike through the snow, were brown with muck. The wheels of numerous carts had carved deep ruts into the road, and he found it just as hard to plot a safe course along it as he had negotiating the uneven ground of the heath.

He was surprised, though, at how quiet the road was. Aside from the few wagons they had seen, there was no traffic moving in either direction. “The north gate is the least used,” Raven answered, with a shrug, after he’d voiced his observation. “Only Creag an Tuirc lies behind us on this side of the river and the most fertile farming land is south of the city. There are some who choose to travel overland to Whitecliff, through the foothills, but it is a long, arduous journey and most prefer to travel by ship instead.”

Cole was suddenly nervous. “Doesn’t that mean the guards are more likely to notice us?”

“I doubt they’ll care,” Raven answered matter-of-factly. “The Archon wouldn’t know you would come here, and it will be days before his giant reaches us – if he even guesses our destination. We have that to thank those birds for, if little else.”

Cole thought again about the strange race of beings they had encountered on top of the mountain. Their leader, the one they called Mother, had been convinced that he was the one their ancient prophecy spoke of. He still wasn’t sure what to make of it. A lot of what Mother had told him about their Dreamwalker seemed to fit, and yet he still didn’t feel particularly special. Here he was, making his way south to the home of the Order, but what did he hope to achieve by confronting the Archon? Then he thought about an old man, a friend, dying in his arms, and his heart hardened.
He will pay for what he did to Merryl, at least.

At that moment, they passed into the shadow cast by the looming walls of Strathearn. The gatehouse was enormous – no different in style, perhaps, to that of the Crag, but on a scale that suggested it had been built by giants. Cole glanced up, and saw arrow slits both facing out across the heath and built into the roof of the passage. Any invaders attempting to use it to breach the city would have to do so while under constant fire from the archers above. The great iron portcullis that could be used to seal the passage was drawn up into its roof, and half a dozen bored-looking guardsmen stood beneath it, gazing disinterestedly upon those wishing to enter.

Despite Raven’s words, Cole felt a knot of anxiety in his stomach as they approached the guardsmen. He expected at any moment for one to step forward and bar his way, but just as his companion had predicted they barely looked in his direction. He noted that the emblem upon their tabards, that of a plated warrior and long broadsword, matched the large standards that fluttered from the gatehouse walls. No doubt the same Maccallam banners that had gone north with the Legion years before to help quell the rebellion of their kinsmen.

They passed beneath a second raised portcullis on the far side of the passage, and walked past another group of guardsmen just as disinterested in their presence as their colleagues had been. A moment later they were within the city proper.

It was the smell that hit Cole first, like a slap across the face. It was the same odour that gathered around the garderobe of the novices’ dormitory on the Crag, only a thousand times stronger. It hung over the street like a fug. “What is that stink?” he cried, his voice muffled by the sleeve clamped against his face.

“Civilisation,” Raven replied, continuing along the main avenue. Cole held his breath and followed her.

Unlike the road leading to it, the streets of the city were paved, Cole noticed, yet were little cleaner for it. Cartwheels had tracked in the muck from outside to besmirch the flagstones, while filthy brown slush lay piled up on either side. Stone and timber buildings loomed up on either side of them, leaning at drunken angles but so tightly packed together that they seemed to be propping one another up. Washing lines thick with laundry were suspended over the street between the upper floors of the shops and houses. As Cole watched, an upstairs window flew open and a woman tipped a bowl of sludge down onto the street, where it landed with a wet splat. With mounting disgust, Cole realised what it was that discoloured the melted snow beside the road. “They throw their dung outside?” he asked incredulously.

“Of course,” Raven answered. “Did you think the houses of commoners are like castles, each with its own privy? The nobles over the river enjoy such luxuries, but for everyone else it’s the chamberpot.”

Cole’s eyes were beginning to water. “How do they stand it?”

Raven turned as if to berate him, but instead laughed when she saw the queasy look on his face. “I’m sorry, Cole,” she said, still smiling. “I forget that you’ve never been to a big city before.” She looked around. Near where they stood, a small stall had been set up, where a merchant was selling what looked like small cloth sacks. Raven walked up to it, drew some coins from her purse, and returned to Cole. “Here,” she said, handing him one of the sacks. There was a string around its neck, which he drew over his head. A pleasant aroma of flowers and spices filled his nostrils. “Most people who live here no longer notice the air, but even so, north of the river the pouch-sellers make a good living. It should help a little.”

“It helps a lot,” said Cole, relieved. “Thank you.”

They continued on through the city. Numerous narrow alleyways led off from the main street, dark and almost completely enclosed by leaning buildings on either side. Cole caught glimpses of faces as they walked; rough-clothed people with serious expressions as they bustled past on business of their own. Many turned to stare at them as they made their way along the street. Cole smiled awkwardly whenever he caught their eyes, but the women hurriedly looked away while the men did not react at all.
Not the most welcoming of places,
he thought.

Raven had obviously sensed it as well. “Something is wrong,” she said. As she spoke, an elderly woman that had been peering suspiciously at them from an open doorway slammed it shut as they passed.

“Maybe the people of Strathearn just aren’t over-keen on strangers,” Cole suggested. “You told me before they distrust their neighbours.”

“No, there’s more to it. It was not like this when I was here last.” Raven looked warily up the street and at the buildings around them. At some of the windows, watchful faces gazed out at them. “People are afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“I don’t know,” Raven admitted. At the entrance to an alleyway nearby, a small group of men stood huddled together, whispering conspiratorially. Several of them glanced in their direction, their faces stern. “We should keep moving.”

She marched along the street, and Cole had to run to keep up. “So what’s the plan?” he asked. “How will we get to Ehrenburg from here?”

Raven quickened her pace, until buildings began to flash by. “I’m not sure,” she replied, her cloak rippling behind her. “With a pair of good horses we could be there in a few days, probably the same by ship. But either way I think a lack of gold will be our biggest problem.”

Cole thought about the purse she had given the people of Faerloren, to pay their toll through the Spiritwood. He still possessed some of the coin Captain Brandt had given him for the journey, but there was little silver or gold remaining. “Could we walk?” he asked.

“It would take over a week, ten days even,” Raven replied. “I don’t think we have that much time left to us.” She chewed her lip as she considered their options. “We’ll work something out. Perhaps we can raise enough gold by trading some of the belongings in our packs.”

Cole doubted it, but kept his misgivings to himself. Eventually, the street they walked down opened up. Ahead of them, Cole saw the sunlight glinting off moving water. They had reached the river that bisected the city, and on the far side he caught sight of large stone mansions half-hidden behind tall walls. It was in stark contrast to the muck-strewn streets and closely packed buildings of the north quadrant of the city. In the distance, he could see a hill rising up behind the mansions, on top of which was perched a great castle. With several pointed turrets coming out from the main body of the keep, in appearance it reminded him of the Crag. The sight of it made him feel oddly homesick.

It was an impressive view, but his eyes were almost immediately drawn to another object that stood nearby. Raven had clearly seen it too, as she strode towards it purposefully. On the northern bank, set in the middle of a small square near the river’s edge, was a tall green column. As they drew closer, Cole saw that it was made of the same green crystal that he wore around his neck. It stood perhaps twenty feet tall, and was too broad for even a full-grown man to put his arms around.