The Jackal of Nar (29 page)

Richius chuckled. “You and my father both. But I don’t mind. It was a great day. It should be remembered.” He paused, regarding the sword with a distant reverence. “I only wish I’d been there to see it.”

“Be glad you weren’t,” said Jojustin. “Your father had enough sense to want his children to live in a free nation. That’s why we went to war with Talistan, and that’s the only reason we’re all still around to talk about it. Now you remember that, Richius. Keep that thought with you always and you’ll be as good a king as Darius was.”

“I’ll do my best,” Richius said, and knew in that instant that he meant it. He would do his best to fill the empty throne his father had left him, even if it meant battling all the legions of Nar. He smiled grimly. Darius Vantran had Angiss Gayle to struggle with for Aramoor’s independence. Now, twenty-five years later, his son had Arkus of Nar to fight.

“I know you will, lad,” said Jojustin. “You and Patwin and all the other lads are fine replacements for us older soldiers. Now, finish your breakfasts. I’ve got work to tend to.” He turned, stepped halfway out of the dining chamber, then called back over his shoulder, “Do me a small favor, would you, Richius? Don’t make too much of a noise at Gilliam’s. There’s no sense in getting everyone all stirred up over something that probably won’t happen.”

“Don’t worry,” answered Richius. “I’ll be … discreet.”

“That’s all I ask,” said Jojustin, turning and leaving the room. When he had gone Richius stared back at the sword. Patwin was right. It was old, but there was something timeless about it. He felt a kinship with the weapon, felt the spirit of his parents forged into its metal. Jessicane was all he had left of either of them.

“Lord, that’s big,” said Patwin. “Are you really going to carry it with you?”

Richius shrugged. “I might as well. I lost my sword in Lucel-Lor, too.”

Richius and Patwin set off for the House of Lotts shortly after breakfast. Unlike most of Aramoor’s noble houses, the House of Lotts was on the sea, far from the uneasy border the tiny nation shared with its neighbor, Talistan. It was, Richius remembered, a considerable distance from his own home. But the road leading north from the castle was a good one, and the wind had abated into a calm, almost mild breeze. Above them hung a cooperative sky, a passive, mother-of-pearl canopy of clouds that Richius guessed was empty of snow. With luck and a steady pace, he was sure they could reach Dinadin’s and return before nightfall.

Within an hour they came to the end of the sprawling Vantran property, past the horse yards and farms to the place where the path narrowed and the trees stood thickly abreast like sentries
along the roadside. A hood of evergreen branches closed over them and dripped melting snow onto their uncovered heads. Richius welcomed the cold tickle of the drops. It was good to be outside again, to have a horse beneath him, to be with a friend, to comment on things of small matter. Here, under the perfume of fir trees, it was easy to forget his burdens.

As a boy Richius had ridden these paths countless times, first sharing the back of his father’s mount, then later on his own. He often came this very way, taking the winding road to the little bit of ocean that Aramoor claimed as its coast, and watching the white-capped waters pitch the tiny boats of the fishermen. It was here, amid the ancient trees, that he learned to be a horseman— the goal of every Aramoorian male. Here was where his father first raced him home to the castle, and where Edgard showed him how to swing a sword from horseback. And not far away, on a ridge too steep for a young, aspiring Guardsman, Jojustin had bandaged his arm after a particularly bad fall. The recollection made Richius flex his elbow. It still twinged when the weather was damp. He smiled. Darius Vantran had been an only child, but he had given his son uncles just the same. Now only one of them remained, and that made Richius cherish the officious white-haired Jojustin more than ever.

An unexpected wind gusted through the tunnel of trees, shaking loose cakes of snow from the branches above. Richius shivered slightly beneath his long riding coat, silently thanking Jenna for the shirt she had made him. He glanced over at Patwin and watched him turn his face from the wind. His cheeks had gone an unhealthy-looking crimson. A patch of fallen snow landed on his shoulder and he cursed.

“Are you all right?” Richius asked. “You don’t look well.”

Patwin coughed before answering. “I’m fine,” he replied, brushing the snow from his coat. “I’m just not used to riding so much yet.”

“I should have made the trip myself. It’s silly for you to be out again so soon.”

“No, Jojustin’s right. You shouldn’t travel alone, not yet. Don’t worry about me. I’m just tired.”

Richius frowned.
Tired
was the least that Patwin looked. Even at this distance he could see the little red specks staining Patwin’s periwinkle eyes. At just over five feet, Patwin was a
small man, thin-boned and slightly-muscled, and the time he had spent traveling through Lucel-Lor had almost killed him. It was true what Patwin had said over breakfast. He really
had
nearly died trying to get Richius his father’s last letter. But even Richius believed his friend had recuperated over the last month, fattening up on sleep and Jenna’s good cooking. Now, seeing Patwin sway in his saddle, Richius knew he’d been wrong.

“This is fever weather, Patwin,” said Richius. “We should go back. You need rest.”

“I’ll be fine,” Patwin insisted. He pointed his chin toward Richius’ horse. “As long as that old nag can keep pace. I don’t want to still be out here when the sun goes down.”

Richius leaned over and patted his horse’s neck. “Don’t listen to him, boy. He’s just mad because you’re prettier than he is.”

“Why do you still ride him, Richius? He can’t do half the things the war-horses can. You should find yourself a new horse. One that’s not so …”

“Old?”

“Well, yes. You’re a Guardsman. You need a horse that fits your station. Like this one.” Patwin gestured to the horse beneath him. Dragonfly was one of Jojustin’s own horses, a fine dapple-gray beast with a perfectly arched back and impeccable gait. A horse befitting a Guardsman of Aramoor.

“Thunder’s good enough for me,” said Richius. “We’ve been together too long for me to just get rid of him.” He gave the horse’s ear an affectionate scratch. “Haven’t we, boy?”

“Thunder,” Patwin scoffed. “Looks to me like Thunder’s lost some of his rumble. How old is he, anyway?”

Richius quickly counted the years. His father had given him Thunder on his sixteenth birthday, the best gift a boy of Aramoor could hope for. That made the horse about…

“Fourteen, I think,” Richius answered, fairly certain of his figure.

“Fourteen? And you don’t think you should have another horse?” Patwin shook his head in disbelief. “We should ask Dinadin to pick out one of his for you, Richius. If war does come, you don’t want to be riding that old bone bag into battle.”

“True enough,” said Richius amiably. The average stable hand could tell with a glance that Thunder was indeed past his prime. But he was still an able-enough runner, and the thought of
retiring the old horse for one of the Lotts’ choice geldings simply held no appeal. As an Aramoor Guardsman he had saddled many horses, horses that were faster and stronger than Thunder had ever been. None, though, had claimed the place in his heart that this sweet-tempered gelding had. Thunder was precious to him, an old friend who, unlike too many old friends, was still around to comfort him.

“If the time comes for war I’ll have Jojustin find me another horse,” Richius said finally. “He’ll probably let you keep Dragonfly if you want him. Maybe I’ll take Shadow or one of the others.” He shrugged, knowing it would be difficult to find a suitable horse for him. He disliked the disposition of most warhorses. Though not as aggressive as the sort Talistan bred—a stock well known for biting even their masters—Aramoorian horses were often fiery and difficult to control, requiring more whip than kindness. Worse, the long conflict in Lucel-Lor had depleted their stables so that now most of them stood empty. If war did come, finding mounts for battle would be their first problem.

“Let’s ask Dinadin to see some of their horses anyway,” said Patwin. “You can’t keep riding Thunder if you’re going to be king.”

“Maybe not,” said Richius. “But I really don’t think there’s much chance of that, do you? Jojustin’s wishing for too much.”

“I don’t know, Richius,” said Patwin. “Jojustin has an ear for these things. If he says you’re going to be king …”

Richius chuckled. “He does seem to believe it, doesn’t he? Still, it would be a miracle. My father hated Arkus and the emperor knows it. And with the Gayles telling him things …” He shook his head. “No chance.”

“And how do you feel about it?” Patwin asked. “Don’t you want to be king?”

Richius shrugged. “It’s preferable to war, I suppose.”

“Oh, come now,” Patwin admonished. “I don’t believe you really feel that way.”

“You’re not a prince,” said Richius sharply. “If you were you’d know how hard it can be. I can just imagine what being king would be like. Everyone would want something from me, expect me to do things. Particularly Arkus. If he does make me king, he’ll want something for it.”

“You don’t know that. Maybe Jojustin’s right. Maybe Arkus just wants a king here he can depend on, someone who won’t
cause trouble for him. He’s still at war with Liss, after all. He can’t afford any strife within the Empire.”

“Maybe,” said Richius. The war between Arkus and the islands of Liss had been going on for almost a decade, and no one expected Arkus to divert any of his forces away from that cause. Liss was too important to the emperor, more important than even Lucel-Lor had been. Whatever designs Arkus still had for Lucel-Lor were a mystery, but everyone in Nar knew the emperor intended to take Liss, whatever the cost. It was more than just greed now. It was a matter of personal honor. Somehow Liss had managed to keep the machines of Nar from swallowing them up, a feat none of the conquered nations of the Empire had accomplished. Aramoor hadn’t done it, nor had Talistan nor Gorkney nor a dozen other states. Only Liss had been able to stare into the eyes of the dragon without being devoured. It was a circumstance Arkus could neither fathom nor allow. To Nar and all its ugly ideals, that kind of boldness was an intolerable cancer.

“We have to be ready,” Richius concluded. “I can’t imagine that Arkus is afraid of us, the condition we’re in. With Talistan on our border his legions could roll over us in a week.”

“All the more reason for you to hope Jojustin’s right,” said Patwin.

Richius nodded. Despite his opposition to being king, it was a far better choice than the possibility of war with Arkus.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, eager to change the subject. “It’s not too late to turn back.”

“And have Jenna think I’m still ill? Forget it. I don’t want her fussing over me anymore. All she ever does is ask me about
you.
”

“Oh?” asked Richius casually. “Does that bother you?”

“Why should it? She’s your problem, not mine.”

“Maybe you should take another look at her,” said Richius. “She’s a pretty girl.”

Patwin shook his head. “She’s not interested in me. It’s you she’s got in her blood.”

“That could change. Maybe if I talked to her, told her what a fine fellow you are …”

“You think I’m sweet on her, is that it?” asked Patwin defensively.

“You’re certainly acting like it. Are you?”

Patwin’s face colored. He looked away, a thin, embarrassed grin on his lips.

“A little, maybe,” he confessed. “But it doesn’t matter. She’s in love with you, Richius. And if Jojustin’s going to marry her to either of us, it’ll be you.”

“That’s not for Jojustin to decide,” said Richius. “King or not, I won’t marry. Not Jenna, not anyone. I intend to make that very clear to Jojustin.”

“But you must marry, Richius. You must have an heir if you’re to be king. It’s expected of you.” Patwin chuckled wryly. “I’m not sure you have a choice in it. Even kings have their orders, I suppose.”

“I won’t marry, Patwin,” said Richius. “Be certain of it.”

“But why? I’m just teasing you about Jenna. It doesn’t have to be her. When you’re king you can marry anyone you want. You have only to name her and she will be yours; the emperor will see to it.”

Richius looked away. “If only it were so easy. Even Arkus can’t grant me the woman I want.”

“What’s this?” asked Patwin. “Have you a sweetling I don’t know about?” He winked at Richius playfully. “Confess now, Richius, who is she? Is it Terril’s daughter? She’s a beauty that one. Every lad in court must be after her, I swear. But you’ve got nothing to worry about. As king—”

“It’s not Terril’s daughter,” said Richius flatly. “I haven’t even seen the girl since coming home.”

“Who then? Someone in the court?”

“No, she’s not from Aramoor,” said Richius. “She’s from …” He paused, considering his words. “Someplace far away.”

“Someplace I’ve heard of?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, where then? Come on, Richius, tell me. It’s not Talistan, is it?”

“Of course not,” said Richius indignantly.

“Thank God for that. Jojustin would have your head on a pike if you told him you were in love with one of their wenches. So where’s she from? I’ve been just about every place you’ve been and I’ve never …”

He stopped, turning suddenly to face Richius. “Oh, no. She’s not a Triin, is she?”

Richius was silent, long enough to convince Patwin he was right.

“Richius! You can’t mean it! A Triin? How did that happen? I mean, there wasn’t even time for it!”

“It wasn’t in the valley, Patwin. I saw her first in Dring, but I really met her in Ackle-Nye.”

“Well, who is she? What’s her name?”

Richius smiled bleakly. “Dyana,” he said. He had not spoken her name to another since coming home. “And before you ask, yes, she was a prostitute.”

At once all the interest on Patwin’s face fell away. “Lord, Richius. Is that all? I thought this was something serious. We’ve all fallen in love with a whore before. Forget about it. It’ll pass.”