By Ways Unseen

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  For Mom,

  who has been there for me since the beginning;

  Dad,

  who showed me what it means to be a good man;

  Erin,

  who came alongside at just the right time;

  And Baby Bear,

  when he’s old enough to read it.

  CHAPTER ONE

  HEIRS

  “What did you find?”

  “Little to give hope.”

  “We must move soon, though.”

  “I have already spoken to him.”

  “Then let’s hope this one isn’t killed, too.”

  30 Tetsamon 1312 – Spring

  The boys clustered around the rack, choosing their wooden swords for the bout. Haydren tried to press forward before all the good ones were taken, but glares from the sons of lords and counts – along with a few well-aimed jabs – kept him at bay. The Earl’s son, Guntsen, was nearby when Haydren finally made it to the nearly-empty rack, wielding a supple yet strong brand that carried no scars of use.

  Haydren glanced at the remaining choices in lowering despair: one had already broken in half, and was dubbed a short sword though it more closely resembled an overweight dagger. Guntsen looked, too, and smiled.

  “You didn’t think you would get a proper sword, did you?” he asked quietly as Sir Cullins’ attention was on the remaining students. “My father always says a weapon should match its owner – actually some of these may still be too good for you.”

  Haydren glared at him; Guntsen smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “You don’t think the sword you used would make any difference, do you?” he asked.

  “No,” Haydren replied. “I think I’ll beat you with anything.”

  Guntsen’s smile faltered as he left to join the others. It was then Haydren noticed a sword far in the corner: a few pieces had been chipped off the edge, and dents and dings were painfully evident across the blade, but it remained solid. Haydren pulled it from the rack, and as he gave a few swings he hoped he could get used to its weight before his match against the Earl’s son.

  It seemed to come too quickly. “Begin!” said Sir Cullins, and Guntsen advanced like a lion to a prey with two broken legs, whose pride watched with lapping tongues. Haydren could not hope to defend for long: as soon as the Earl’s son was within striking distance, he struck, and the ‘lion’ was stung on the nose.

  Guntsen backed away quickly with a free hand pressed to a trickle of blood. “Defend yourself, Guntsen!” Sir Cullins ordered over the groans of Guntsen’s friends. But Haydren could tell the young heir was blinking away tears, and his blade wavered. As Haydren glanced at the sword-master, he missed the hardening of Guntsen’s features; he did not miss the quick patter of feet, and turned back as the lion pounced in anger. Two blows left Haydren’s ears ringing, and cheers erupting from the class.

  Haydren now retreated, the wood heavy in his hand, Guntsen’s brand cracking through the air near his head. “Body!” Sir Cullins barked: the boys were supposed to try for body blows, which healed more quickly.

  Haydren’s mind interpreted the shout as a command, and in his reflex the full weight of the weapon hit, centered on a finger’s-point just below where Guntsen’s ribs met. The heir’s sword struck the mat just before his knees as he gasped for breath.

  “Make it official,” Sir Cullins said in the sudden silence; Haydren looked at him as he nodded toward Guntsen gravely. Haydren’s sword was limp in his hand; it did not seem right that so powerful a creature should huddle gasping while its adversary leered over it, yet he didn’t move. His gaze dropped to the floor.

  “Haydren,” Sir Cullins rumbled. “You do not owe it to your enemy to let him live. Make it official.”

  “Stop dragging it out!” came hissed from the group of Guntsen’s closest friends.

  Haydren set his jaw, and quickly dragged the blade against Guntsen’s neck, symbolically finishing the match.

  As the final match was ending, the doors to the classroom opened and two liveried servants held them stiffly open. Sir Cullins turned, and quickly dropped to one knee. “Your Grace,” he said as the Earl entered; the rest of the classroom bowed as well.

  “Sir Cullins, what have you been teaching them today?” Earl Taeus Junei asked gravely, surveying a collection of welts, bruises, and bandages. Sir Cullins smiled as he rose.

  “Sword-fighting, your Grace.”

  “By heavens, don’t let them use real blades or I’ll have none to serve me.”

  “I had considered it, your Grace, but came to the same conclusion.”

  Earl Junei chuckled. “And how did the Earl’s favorite fare today?”

  “I’m afraid his overconfidence and emotions did not serve him well, your Grace,” Sir Cullins replied with a sideways glance at the young boy.

  “Overconfidence? He should know his opponents well enough…” Earl Junei trailed off as his gaze came to rest upon Haydren, who swallowed and quickly looked at the floor. “I see,” said the Earl. “Haydren, if I knew you would cause such trouble I would not have honored your father by sending you here.”

  “Yes, your Grace,” Haydren squeaked, too young to recognize the playful flash in Taeus’ eyes. Those eyes hardened quickly as they turned finally to Guntsen.

  “Come, son,” Earl Junei said, his voice the distant thunder of a rapidly approaching storm. “Your other instructors may be able to help your overconfidence.”

  As Guntsen followed his father out of the room, he cast a final, hate-filled glance at Haydren.

  “He’ll probably get it tonight,” someone whispered behind Haydren. “Proper blood would have known their place; not so much common blood, eh?”

  “Papa always told me commoners’ hair is brown because their minds are covered in dirt; seems he was right.”

  Wouldn’t that mean yours is covered in soot? Haydren’s mind snapped back.

  “Don’t worry about it,” whispered another as Sir Cullins called for their attention. “Guntsen won’t let this pass, if I know him.”

  *

  That night, Haydren lay awake, watching a battle take place in the corner of his small room. A candle on the stand by his bed lay in a draft from the narrow window, and as its flame struggled against a soft spring wind, a spear-like shadow darted from the corner toward Haydren’s bed, only to retreat as the flame rose up. Another breeze, and the spear descended upon Haydren again as he tugged the blankets against his chin. Back and forth, advancing and retreating but never leaving fully, the spear taunted him, fought against the flame.

  The door burst open; Haydren gave a yelp as the steward of the student-quarters strode swiftly in.

  “No flames at night!” he rasped. “Do you want us to burn in our beds?”

 
The shadow of the steward met the shadow of the spear; pinching fingers snuffed the flame and the shadow engulfed the room. The steward left, slamming the door and leaving Haydren in utter darkness with barely his breath.

  The door creaked open and leather footfalls padded across the floor. Haydren whimpered the moment before blows fell – caked soap held in stockings struck him in a torrent of bruising. Haydren curled tightly, trying to ball himself into nothingness, away from the drumming kicks.

  Finally the blows ceased; feet left the room. “You will never be a swordsman, when I become Earl,” said a remaining visitor. “No matter what I have to do, I will never give that kind of honor to a sniveling commoner like you. If I can help it, you, your father, and your mother – if you can call them that – will sit outside my gate begging me for a pinch of what I wouldn’t even feed my dogs.”

  Those feet left, too, and the door was shut quietly.

  *

  “This,” said Sir Cullins, “is a scimitar.” Haydren, sitting near the back of the room, craned his head to see the weapon whose curved blade jutted near the tip like a thorn. “It’s a very sturdy weapon, little maintenance, and inexpensive enough for thieves and bandits to prefer it. Its reach is not that of the longswords equipping most of our soldiers, but when wielded effectively is still a very dangerous weapon.

  “This next sword,” he continued, laying down the scimitar and picking up a long straight blade whose matte sheen resembled uncut pewter, “you may hope you never meet. It is a Follus sword, used only by the Knights of Galessern.”

  A low rumble sounded around the room as the boys glanced at one another and stretched for a better look. Haydren, too, gazed eagerly: he rather did hope to meet one of those swords, or perhaps even all of them if it would mean the end of Galessern’s terror.

  One of the boys just in front of Haydren – Kitrel, he thought the name was – glanced back at him and studied him for a moment before shuffling a little to his right.

  “The properties of Follus are so unique and advantageous that the King of Burieng made certain only his soldiers carried it – and to my knowledge, this is the only one ever managed to be brought out of that fortress. Aside from being almost magically durable yet light, the metal has a very curious sound to it when struck.”

  As Sir Cullins moved to one of the room’s metal columns, Kitrel gestured quickly, and Haydren edged forward to sit beside him.

  “You look like you want to know this stuff pretty badly,” he whispered quietly to Haydren, flashing him a smile. “Probably more than Harlan, anyway.”

  Haydren glanced forward to where the youngest son of a distant count sat at the front of the classroom, chin in his hands and gazing at the floor. Haydren rolled his eyes. But before he could speak a sharp ping! crashed near the front of the room.

  Everyone, including Harlan, snapped their eyes to where Sir Cullins stood looking at them gravely. The Follus sword rested in his left hand; as they watched, he made a casual backswing with the sword again, bringing it ringing against the metal pole.

  Haydren stretched his jaw, closing his eyes as the ping seemed to echo in his head, strangely nauseating him. He saw, when he looked up again, that most of the other boys were having the same reaction.

  “Imagine being directly on the other side of that, as it’s striking against your sword,” Sir Cullins said. Some of the boys chuckled nervously; Sir Cullins placed the blade back on the table. “At least I’ll know how best to get all of your attention, from now on,” he said with a brief grin.

  They went through a number of other weapons that day – bows, pikes, halberds, short swords; even a few common items that could be used as weapons. At the end of the day, Sir Cullins allowed them all to come up and take closer looks, even allowing them to heft some under close supervision. None of them were allowed to touch the Follus sword, though Haydren leaned close to inspect it.

  As the boys milled and whispered to one another, Guntsen approached Haydren with a smile on his face. “Learning everything you can?” he asked quietly, glancing to where Sir Cullins was distracted by another boy, Willam.

  “I guess,” Haydren said with a shrug, bending to peer at the thick edge of the scimitar.

  “I had something I wanted to show you,” Guntsen said. “I think maybe we simply misunderstand each other; and I think maybe I can help fix that. Meet me downstairs after class lets out, okay?”

  “What’s down there?” Haydren asked.

  “Quiet, Haydren,” Guntsen muttered, glancing furtively as Sir Cullins’ gaze suddenly bent upon them. Guntsen put an arm around Haydren’s shoulders and steered him toward the bow. “It’s not down there. It’s just where I want you to meet me so I can take you to where it is.” Guntsen pointed at the bow and spoke loudly. “Never realized it was such a fine weapon. Maybe you should try it out, Haydren.”

  As Guntsen walked away, Kitrel approached. “Don’t go,” he said as they moved to the next weapon down the line. “Whatever it is he wants, it’s not to help you understand each other and become friends.”

  Haydren glanced at the Earl’s son, who stood smiling and talking with a group of boys. “I’ll give him a chance,” he said. “At least he’s talking to me.”

  “I’m talking to you,” Kitrel said with a grin. “But I think we can be friends even if we don’t totally understand each other.”

  But Haydren said nothing, biding his time until they were dismissed. After putting his things in his room, he went to the school’s main rotunda and found Guntsen waiting with Willam and Jurian, the two highest-ranking students in the school – at least, as far as blood-relation.

  “What is it?” Haydren asked.

  “Let’s go,” Guntsen replied with an easy smile. “It’s in the city.”

  The three friends walked ahead while Haydren trailed a little behind, curious, a little wary, but also quietly wondering who might be seeing him walking with not only the son of an earl, but also the son of the earl’s most trusted advisor, and the son of a duke.

  They turned soon off the main road, one of three roads that divided Hewolucs and had originally joined the eastern port of Westide to settlements both west and north. The school was in fact laid on the foundations of the original tollgate, from a time when Hewolucs was only a soldiers’ barracks and an inn on a crossroad – back before the provinces were allowed to be ruled by their own Earls.

  Haydren enjoyed his history classes – really he enjoyed all his classes. But history interested him, perhaps because he had so little of his own. As they walked the streets he would find himself wondering when that building would have been constructed, or that street officially made a street, and paved; how old certain stonework was, if it had ever had blood splashed on it from a battle. Over a thousand years ago, Hewolucs had been inhabited by Cariste settlers under Endolin rule – the Endolin Mountains was where the first King of Burieng had ruled. Striking from Galessern, he had simultaneously overthrown the eastern province held by the Cariste, and the western province held by the Rinc Nain, and named them after his sons who were put in place to rule: Prince Kelian over the east, and Prince Coberan over the west. Before that, Rinc Nain and Cariste hated each other – Haydren couldn’t remember why, something about magic and the God of All. Well, they still hated; but open combat had ended when Burieng became a country. Of course now, the Earl of Coberan seemed to be making threats against Kelian, since the King seemed to have been overthrown by Lasserain –

  Laughter up ahead drew his attention back to the royal heirs; but they still did not acknowledge him. He kept walking and watching, waiting for one of them to say something to him.

  With each turn the streets grew narrower, until finally, when Haydren had no idea where he was, they came upon a small square that ended abruptly against a large stone wall. Peering upward, Haydren recognized the banners drooping from the Keep.

  The three friends had stopped and stood apart, framing in Haydren’s vision a small shack with close-slatted sides that butted
directly against the base of the keep. If he had cared or been able to notice, Haydren would have seen that neither of the nearest keep towers could see the shack from where the guards kept their watch.

  “What is it?” Haydren asked again, this time with a little halt in his voice.

  “That,” said Guntsen, his smile widening; “is a shed.”

  Haydren glanced between the three boys. “What’s in it?”

  “Well that’s why we brought you here,” Guntsen replied, suddenly serious though his friends continued grinning. “In there is what I wanted to show you. But there’s really no describing it: you just have to see it. I hoped, by this act of trust, that we might come to understand one another better.”

  He turned quickly and walked to the door of the shed, then rested his hand on the metal latch as he turned back to Haydren. “Are you coming?”

  Haydren walked up, and Guntsen quietly opened the door; inside was pitch dark as the angle of the sun only lit the near wall, and nothing of the interior.

  “I can’t see anything,” Haydren said, unsure why he was whispering.

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” Guntsen replied, a strange, excited tinge to his voice. “There’s a lantern on the wall; just go and light it.”

  But before Haydren could step inside he was shoved; the door slammed; and as he caught his footing he heard a bolt scrape closed. Haydren flung himself at the door, but it remained fast.

  “I told you I wanted us to understand each other,” Guntsen’s voice growled from the opposite side. “And I told you two months ago I will never let you become a swordsman. You should have listened. Good-bye, Haydren.”

  “Guntsen!” Haydren shouted as footsteps retreated. “Guntsen, let me out!” he shouted again. The only response was echoing laughter. Haydren beat a fist against the door; a growl behind him made him jump. He turned quickly, peering into the darkness for the source of the noise. The slatted sides of the shed let in only a little light, and that in thin shafts.

  A low growl rumbled again, and Haydren caught a flash of bared teeth. He whimpered, backing against the wall. Metal rattled behind him, and he reached back in search of something, anything, to use to defend himself. Pain sliced his finger, and, wincing, he grasped what felt like a sickle from the wall. His heart quailed as he held the implement in front of him, shaking wildly.