By Ways Unseen Page 7

  When he reached his room, he pulled the armor off its stand and placed it on his bed. As he gazed at it, he realized he would have to dull it again after the ceremony and before going on patrol, so it would not attract the attention of enemies for miles around; he wondered, then, why he wanted to be something as insignificant as a bond-swordsman. For just a moment, he imagined going out under his own banner, fighting battles he deemed worthy. But the moment quickly passed – after all, Guntsen was waiting to kill him at the earliest possible convenience anyway – and he began polishing the bright steel.

  The day passed with no word from Sir Cullins, and night fell. Haydren extinguished his lamps slowly, save for one candle which he left to burn as he went to sleep. Despite the tramp of thoughts in his head, he quickly slipped into dreamless rest.

  He awoke some time later to a pitch black room. His breath caught in his throat, and suddenly something like a hand clamped on his mouth. He flailed at it, but before he could find it to dislodge it, a voice whispered in the gloom.

  “Haydren, calm down,” it said. He found himself obeying as his eyes strained to see who it was that assailed him, but the darkness was too deep to pierce.

  “Will you be silent, and hear me?” the voice rasped. Haydren nodded. “Very well,” it continued. The pressure left his mouth as the voice continued to breathe from lampless secrecy.

  “There is a plot to kill you, Haydren,” it said. “One in fact, not in idea or threat. I do not know how he intends to do it, specifically; even an earl cannot randomly kill a person, especially someone in his services. But know he is planning to do it, and your life is in danger as long as you stay here.”

  Finally, Haydren could be silent no longer, though he still kept his voice in a low whisper. “Who are you?” he asked. “How do you know this?”

  “I am a friend,” the voice replied. “One you may not know you have.”

  “And how do I know you are not telling me these things just to set me up for Guntsen, set me up to be vulnerable some way?”

  “Do not be silly!” said the voice, rising almost above a whisper. “First, I told you I am a friend. Second, I do not care where you go, or even if you stay at your own peril; I came only to warn you. But if you would require further proof, go this morning and speak to Dillion; he may verify my words.”

  “How do I know you are not Dillion yourself?” Haydren shot back.

  No answer.

  “Or perhaps you worked together with Guntsen and Dillion to conspire against me?”

  Still there was silence. Haydren rose, fumbled for his tinder box, and lit the lamp on the table beside him. The light flared, quickly filling the room. He was alone, and his door was shut fast.

  Sleep did not come so quickly, this time.

  The next morning, the steward of the apartments arrived, summoning him to Sir Cullins office – Haydren presumed it concerned his request to go to Frecksshire. He dressed quickly and made his way down the hall. But as he passed Jurian’s room, he heard voices coming from behind the cracked door.

  “Did you put Willam on that patrol, too?” Jurian’s voice came, thick and loud with smoldering rage.

  “Would you be quiet?” Guntsen replied. “No, I did not; someone must have changed it after I did. I only wanted Haydren’s festering friend on that patrol.”

  “So what do you plan now?”

  There was a brief moment of silence; had they heard Haydren’s sudden gasp?

  “Friend . . . Just be . . . patrol.”

  Haydren moved closer, pressing his ear to the door, but the voices were too low to make out all of the words.

  “When?”

  “. . . father . . . I gain . . . throne.”

  “Haydren will be dead?” Haydren jumped back as Jurian’s voice cackled suddenly.

  “Would you please be quiet!” Guntsen hissed.

  “Sorry. Are you sure you can do it?”

  Haydren didn’t wait to hear any more. Keeping his footfalls light, Haydren continued well past Jurian’s room before moving at a trot to Sir Cullins’ room. Upon reaching the door, he knocked loudly; Sir Cullins answered it quickly, and Haydren glanced behind him before ducking swiftly inside.

  Sir Cullins gazed at him silently for several moments, then shut the door. “Haydren, the Earl will not let you leave; I spoke to him late last night, and was waiting until this morning to tell you.”

  Haydren’s head dropped for a second before his gaze returned to Sir Cullins. “Are you sure there’s no way for me to leave? Even for a little bit?”

  Sir Cullins glanced quizzically at him. “’A little bit’ wouldn’t be enough, Haydren, to go all the way to Frecksshire.”

  Haydren bit his lip, his mind knocking with Guntsen’s overheard threat. He had to find a way out of this box; Guntsen’s teeth were growing larger every day. “If I could just take a little time, even if I stay in Kelian, to try to find out more…” Enough time to make it to the border, at least.

  “Haydren, why is it suddenly so important for you to have this time?” Sir Cullins asked.

  Could he tell him? The sword-master was obligated to the title of Earl, not to Taeus Junei; could he know what Guntsen planned, and help Haydren?

  “It’s just…something I overheard Guntsen say this morning,” Haydren said, glancing to his right, afraid to look at Sir Cullins too closely; afraid to seem as if he were only trying to get Guntsen in trouble. “Just as I was coming to see you, he was in Jurian’s room. He said…he said he put Kitrel on the patrol intentionally, because it was dangerous.”

  Now that it was out, Haydren looked at Sir Cullins; the sword-master looked back at him gravely, his hands folded in front of his chin, but said nothing.

  “He also said he had another plan…to kill me…when his father – when Earl Junei was dead,” Haydren concluded, determined to be silent now until Sir Cullins spoke.

  Cocking his wrists a little forward, Sir Cullins said: “You are certain both of what you heard and that it was Guntsen and Jurian who said it?”

  Haydren nodded emphatically. “It was them.”

  Sir Cullins took a breath. “Then pack what you need for a long journey, and meet me back here tonight, after the moon rises, and I will help you flee.”

  Haydren cocked his head, gazing at the sword-master quizzically.

  “It is not because of the ambush that your graduation has not yet taken place, Haydren,” Sir Cullins said, his voice low. “But because the Earl is ill. We did not want word to get out.” The sword-master leaned closer, and Haydren took a step forward to hear him better. “His illness has taken a turn for the worse, Haydren; the Earl is not expected to last the week.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  BLADES

  “Will he go with him?”

  “Of course not; that is not his work.”

  “But, then…”

  “Much is yet to be done. I will return shortly.”

  34 Nuamon 1319 – Spring

  Haydren stood as if thunderstruck; the Earl was not old or prone to poor health, so what could this mean? The timing with Guntsen’s plan was remarkable, but surely he could not poison his own father, could he?

  Sir Cullins broke the silence, recalling Haydren from his stupor. “Go gather what supplies you need, Haydren,” he said. “I will provide you with a horse to make the journey. You must get as far away as possible! Guntsen will surely send word to Sanir, which guards the road to the border with Frecksshire; if he does, you will not make it through to the west alive. I will keep him satisfied until he ascends the throne.” Sir Cullins paused, sighing. “My allegiance is first and foremost to the Earl, Haydren, whoever holds that position – including Guntsen. Earl Junei would not want you needlessly dead, and it is under that understanding that I may help you escape; as soon as Guntsen ascends, however…”

  “I understand,” Haydren said numbly.

  “All right. Go, get packed. Leave your armor here: its weight will not be a benefit, and I have something else I can g
ive you. Do whatever you must today, but be back here when the moon rises. Understood?”

  “Yes, Sir Cullins,” Haydren replied. “Thank you.”

  “You can thank me once you are in Frecksshire, Haydren,” Sir Cullins replied somberly. “There will be much to overcome before you are truly free from this castle. Now go! Return tonight.”

  Haydren lay for a long time on his bed that day, after he had finished packing and tucked his bag away. He grasped his harp, occasionally plucking the strings to the tune he remembered the night before. He knew, deeper and more surely than he knew anything else, that there was more to the song. But no words came to him, and nothing he tried to come up with fit properly. But he held on to the harp: except for the letter – which told him little – it was his only link now to his past. By the end of the day he would be uprooted and cast adrift, with no knowledge of the outside world except what he had learned at this school. He needed to get to Frecksshire, but it was not as simple as riding: physical and cultural barriers both, not to mention the Earl’s soldiers, would stand in his way. He kept recalling histories and geographies, hoping to find some clue that would help him in the coming weeks. He did not find much.

  As evening approached, Haydren sat up. The lowering rays of the sun glinted off his sword – but it was Mickel’s sword; Haydren set his harp aside and rose. He walked over to the weapon and picked it up, gazing over its lustrous surface. Might it be stained with blood before the week was done? Before the day was done?

  A sudden desire to see Mickel and Maerie seized upon him, and he gripped the hilt in determination. But should he let Sir Cullins know where he was going? The day was drawing to a close: there might not be time. Hurriedly he buckled on the sword and threw a cloak around his shoulders. He glanced once more around the room, making sure that nothing much was out of place should anyone enter while he was gone.

  His steps this time were more hurried, and he soon arrived home and knocked without hesitation. Mickel opened the door, and Haydren stepped in before a long greeting could take place.

  “You are back early,” Mickel said.

  “I know,” Haydren replied. “I’m leaving the castle tonight, I—” He paused: should he say specifically why? He did not want Maerie to worry. “I’m being sent on another mission. Far away. I won’t be back for a long time.”

  Instead of prying him with questions, as Haydren expected, Mickel looked at him soberly for a long moment without speaking.

  “Come with me,” he said finally, moving toward the stairs. “It’s time for you to have something.”

  Curious, Haydren followed silently. Mickel led him upstairs to a dark room, where he lit a candle and set it atop a large chest of drawers. Mickel opened a lower drawer and began pulling out several thick bolts of cloth.

  “When you came here, ten years ago,” he said, still unpacking the cloths from the drawer, “you did have something on you; something which I had kept hidden from everyone, including Maerie. I could not risk it being found. I didn’t want to tell you yesterday because by my guess you were still in the Earl’s ranks.” He paused then, straightening. “My guess now is you are no longer, or will not be after tonight?”

  Haydren’s jaw went slack. “How—?”

  “Take my advice; leave my sword in your room,” Mickel said quietly. “If you do it well, they may not know you are gone for a day or more.”

  “I will need a sword, Mickel,” Haydren whispered harshly.

  Mickel said nothing at first, then bent down toward the drawer and reached far into its recesses. “So take this,” he said. “It’s yours anyway.”

  When he straightened, he held in his hand a sword sheathed in a black leather scabbard, with a mouth of crystal that sparkled in the candlelight; etchings on the mouth and silver stitching on the leather were in the form of reptilian scales. Haydren took the sword. The hilt was in the likeness of a dragon, forged from a metal that he did not recognize: it shone like the mirrored surface of a deep lake under moonlight, though it was tinged with its own pale red that did not come from candlelight. A curled dragon’s tail formed the pommel; the handle was black leather like the scabbard, with silver stitching in scales as well, modeling the body; the guard was formed by thin, foreshortened wings. As he drew the sword, he gasped; the head of the dragon dipped into the blade, the lower jaw protruding through the other side. Body, head, and blade were of the same liquid-pale-red metal, and from the mouth of the dragon, spreading down the length of the blade until it formed the tapered tip, were gleaming flames in pitted red like ruby rust. As he held it, it seemed to shine with a deeper luster than he had first noticed.

  “This was mine?” Haydren whispered. Could this ‘possession’ be what the letter meant?

  “It is yours,” Mickel corrected. “You had it on you when you arrived, as I said; without drawing it, I could see it was unique, and I knew someone would try to take it from you if they discovered it. So I hid it until I could determine a proper time for you to have it back; a time when you would be able to keep possession of it.” He paused, gazing down the length of the sword. “It would seem this is the time. Though I have often looked at it, it never shined like it does now. There is something very special about this sword, Haydren.” Mickel’s voice echoed the awe that Haydren felt vibrating inside of him. “It is yours, and no one else’s, and I don’t mean by your possession of it. It knows when you hold it, and it knows you are supposed to hold it.”

  “How – How is that—?”

  “I don’t know, Haydren,” Mickel replied. “But I know when I look at that sword now.” Mickel blinked once, closed his eyes and shook his head as if to clear it of something. When he opened his eyes once more, he was looking at Haydren alone. “But come,” he said, his voice normal. “You must say goodbye to Maerie before you go; she would never forgive either of us if you left without telling her.”

  “Mickel,” Haydren said quietly; Mickel turned toward him. “Mickel, I believe Guntsen poisoned his father…”

  “But the Earl is in good health!”

  “No, he isn’t, and I think it’s Guntsen’s doing, and I think it’s because he wants me dead…”

  “He wouldn’t do that if he only wanted you dead, Haydren,” Mickel said with a glance he had used before to remind Haydren to be less prideful.

  “Well, okay, fine; but he’s ascending the throne soon, and he wants me dead after he does that, which is why I’m leaving.” Haydren looked earnestly at his adoptive father. “Which means you and Maerie will be in great danger after I leave. I can’t assume you can go with me, but if there’s any way for you two to leave…”

  “And go where?” Mickel asked practically, but not sadly. “As soon as we try to leave, he’ll know something is wrong; if he doesn’t find out until he ascends the throne, it will go much better for you: we’ll stay. And you won’t order your father around, adoptive or not,” he added with an eyebrow raised to silence Haydren’s look.

  Haydren nodded once in acquiescence. He sheathed the sword, and wrapped it in a gray wool blanket that Mickel gave him.

  Though Maerie took the news far better than Haydren thought she would – she only cried a little, and hugged him no longer and no tighter than he wished she would – she did insist that she make him one last meal.

  “If you’re going to be gone as long as you say, then you’re going to be going for a while without a home-cooked meal,” she said. “The least I can do is to give you something to remember me by.”

  At this he assented, and though he kept a wary eye on the light outside, he ate heartily. When they had finished, he said his farewells, insisting he had to be back at the apartments before the moon rose.

  When he returned to his room, he put Mickel’s sword in its stand, and buckled on his own. For several moments, he gazed down at it, at the silver and crystal as it caught the candlelight. With another glance out of his window – the moon was already beginning to spill its light inside the castle – he grabbed his bag and retur
ned to Sir Cullins’ office. Before his knuckles lifted from the last knock, Sir Cullins yanked open the door.

  “You’re late, Haydren,” he whispered harshly, pulling him inside. “Come with me.”

  Without further ado, Sir Cullins grasped a torch from a sconce in the wall and exited the door in the back of the chamber, which opened on a long, dark corridor of smooth stone blocks. Speechlessly Haydren followed, walking swiftly to keep astride of the hurrying sword-master. The corridor turned several times, and they ducked left and right through many heavy doors that opened off of it; Haydren wondered that Sir Cullins could find his way at all. Long after Haydren lost count, Sir Cullins faced a final door, inserting a key and turning the lock easily before pushing it open.

  “What is this place?” Haydren asked as Sir Cullins locked the door behind them.

  “Storage,” he replied curtly. He opened a box and removed several cloth-wrapped bundles. “Put these on, swiftly,” he said. “It’s basic armor,” he continued as Haydren began to unwrap the bundles. “The bracers are leather with metal plates, but the chest-plate is solid steel.”

  Haydren finished removing the shrouds: the armor was quite light, and had already been dulled.

  “I would recommend wearing it underneath your tunic,” Sir Cullins advised. “Now hurry!”

  As Haydren stripped off his shirt, Sir Cullins moved several deceptively light boxes, took a large iron rod that stood against a wall, and inserted it into a hole in the floor. With a grunt, he levered open the concealed trap-door. A breeze wafted faintly from below, smelling of wet stone and cold water.

  Haydren quickly tied the laces of the armor, snugging it tight; it fit him far better than he expected, and he barely noticed its weight. He pulled his shirt back on, and refastened his cloak about him. Sir Cullins indicated Haydren should enter the hole first, and then came behind, lowering the trap-door and shutting them inside. A flight of stairs took them quickly downward.