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But in truth he didn’t mind these horses. The princess, it seemed, bred the kind of fine riding horses favored by wealthy tradesmen and minor gentry -- beautiful animals of gentle temperment. He got all the burrs out of the manes and tails, brushed the coats until they shone, cleaned out the hooves, and did everything else that was required of him.
When the sun began to set, Tad and Hank and Lewis retired to the tack room at the back of the stables. There, by the light of an oil lamp, Lewis schooled the boys in the commendation knot. “This is how Riders put beads and medals into the mane. If you know how to read them, you can tell the whole history of a mount by what his Rider has woven in.” He used a thin hooked rod to pull strands of hair through a bead, then looped those strands around others to hold the bead in place. Tad watched Lewis carefully, then repeated the motions several times until he had a knot that actually held his bead in place. “Not bad,” nodded the horsemaster, “now do a whole row.”
While Tad and Hank practiced, the horsemaster told them about the commendations, which belonged to the horse rather than the Rider. First, a lock of the Rider’s hair was woven in with the mane, along with the Rider’s emblem. A miniature shield with a heraldic design denoted service to a particular noble or house, and beads directly beneath it represented years of service: one white bead for each year. Military campaigns each had their own special bead, which was long and stripped with different colors. Special or heroic service was marked by a medal, a very thin disk made of copper or silver about twice the size of a coin, stamped with the insignia of the noble who had been so ably served.
As he spoke, the lamplight showed all of the lines in Lewis’ weathered face. There was, in his recital, a kind of ritual. He had learned these things as a boy, had lived them as a Rider for many years, and had taught them to generations of younger men. When Rider Lewis passed into the lands of the Gods, those he had taught would pass on the same knowledge in the same way: gathered around lamplight after a day filled with the horses they loved so much.
“Do you come from an equestrian family, young Thaddius?” asked Lewis, breaking the spell.
“No sir, my kin were farmers. The only horse we had was for pulling wagons and things.” Tad felt a stone form in his gut when he thought of the home he could never go home to, because it was no longer there. If he could just concentrate hard enough on what his hands were doing, he knew the clenching feeling would go away.
“And how was it you ended up with your Master Brightstar?”
“I found him in a ditch, with some other children.” Mr. Brightstar entered the circle of light as if by some magic. “A troll went on a rampage through his hamlet, and Thaddius dragged a bunch of children into the ditch, out of sight. Saved the lot of them.”
Tad could feel the hot tears starting again, for about the thousandth time since That Day. Under the cover of putting away his tools, he turned away so the men could not see him cry. “By the time it was over, the only family he had left was an uncle who didn’t want him. It would have been a waste to leave him there, so I took him on.” Mr. Brightstar made it sound like someone had dropped a few coins, and he had simply picked them up.
Tad had lost everything at once, except for an uncle who drank too much and abused him at every turn. The few weeks he spent with his last remaining relative had made Tad wish the man had been killed like his parents. Tad tried not to wish terrible endings on his last living relative, like lying dead in a ditch, or being eaten by the giant wolves of the Angsul, or being swallowed by a dragon, but sometimes it was difficult.
Mr. Brightstar’s hand on his shoulder brought Tad back from his morbid thoughts. “Go get cleaned and dressed for dinner. And bring your Geranicus.”
Though she didn't look very well, the Lady Calanth was very beautiful in a silk black frock cinched with a wide black belt. That, and her long straight black hair and white skin made Tad think of a ghost in mourning. Her walk, although slow, was as smooth and graceful as if she were barely there. For reasons he could not fathom, Tad wanted to stand taller when she was near, and from the way they shifted when she entered a room, her servants felt the same.
After several minutes of trying very hard not to look at her directly, Tad finally gave in long enough to commit her face to memory. The Lady was in her early twenties, around the same age as Aidan and Naida, but a head shorter and without the same hardness in her arms and neck. She had the same heart-shaped face and straight nose as the doubty sisters, but instead of spending her years training for battle she had spent them training to do ... whatever it was princesses did.
She was, Tad would later learn, actually in mourning. Her family (she was a niece of the new Duke of Corak) had married her to a far-away lord in order to cement some alliance or other. So she journeyed up the Stair, over the desert, and into the principalities of Soubous to join her groom. It was in those weeks that she had met Mr. Brightstar and his friends, all of them being in the same caravan for a while. Their acquaintance had been short-lived however, as Mr. Brightstar’s party turned North at Vohanis (an infamous city) while the rest of the caravan, and Lady Calanth with it, continued West.
Once she arrived in far-off Ustolia and was married, the Lady Calanth had been treated as little more than a slave by her husband’s family. In spite of their noble name, that family was in deed as ignoble as any group of bandits or highwaymen. Her misery was destined to be brief, thanks to a rebellion against the hated nobles. In short order she was a widow and, for a little while at least, a penniless vagabond.
Calanth had quietly made her way back to Aspera and took up residence in a nearly-forgotten country house, named Farshore, there to sit out her required days of mourning. Distanced from a father who had sold her for political coin, free of a despised husband, and unencumbrered by anything resembling real grief, the Princess was enjoying an un-looked-for compensation: freedom to do as she pleased.
She had been free, that is, until a few nights previously. About the time Nadia and Aidan were riding out the gates of Corak, Lady Calanth succumbed to an urge to search her house. Not knowing what she was looking for, but certain she would know it when she found it, she had systematically dismantled most of the rooms in her house. She had explored, opened, emptied, overturned and, in some cases, broken anything and everything that might have been hiding the mysterious object of her search. When her friends and servants tried to restrain her she sickened, until they relented and allowed to get on with the destruction of her property.
It was the library which finally yielded results, in the form of a wooden box. This she guarded, lying on her sickbed, until it was put into the hands of the Sisters. In the few hours since then, her illness had broken and she began to get better.
The people might all be gathered in Lady Calanth’s house, but the real host this evening was the thing that had brought them together. The box now sat by the Princess’ place at the head of the dinner table, its dark finish reflecting the candlelight. It was the size of a stationery box: large enough to hold a supply of paper, pens, and ink. It was plain rosewood, without embellishment but of perfect workmanship. In a library, such a thing could be safely hidden for generations.
Dress for the guests was informal, both because of the Lady Calanth's illness, the disarray of her house, and the limited amount of space in the travelers' saddlebags. The Bishop dressed in the only wardrobe he possessed, a dark brown coat that buttoned along his left shoulder and down one side, and was long enough to reach his polished boots. From a silver chain around his neck dangled the sign of his order wrought in iron: a square bisected vertically with a cudgel symbolizing Order and Zeal.
The sisters had put aside their breeches, boots and protective leathers to don modest dresses in green (for Nadia) and blue-gray (for Aidan), and had adorned themselves with necklaces made of perls interspersed with beads of some exotic semi-precious stones. Minzerec wore a wizard's robe of deep purple, trimmed in arcane symbols embroidered with gold thread.
Earkey, who sat next to the physican, wore green pants, a white shirt stripped in green, a purple vest, and a brown jacket trimmed at the collar and cuffs with black fur. The back of his jacket had the figure of a silver dragon on it, painstakingly constructed from tiny scales of real silver sewn on individually. A green gem made up the fearsome creature's eye. When the gnome moved or a breeze blew by, the dragon shimmered. He was by far the most colorfuly dressed diner.
The Lady’s physician and the horsemaster were dressed much like Earkey only taller and with less flair. They were, in short, minor country gentlemen having dinner much as they would on any other night.
The elf, Basil, hadn't brought a change of clothes. The servants nearly had to strip him by force so they could wash his things, and had loaned him Asperan garb. Without his flowing robes and headwrap that hid his ears, however dirty they might have been, he looked even more out of place than normal. In drinking his third goblet of wine while everyone else was on their first, he was showing restraint Tad hadn’t witnessed before.
"The Harrells are related to all of the other royal families in Soubous and Aspera, of course," Lady Calanth was saying. "When I was younger I was insufferably proud of that. But when you realize just how many of us there are it becomes a lot less special. And that's not counting the unrecognized kin." Tad wondered what "unrecognized kin" were, exactly. Back home you had either belonged to a family or you didn’t. "I know I've read about a connection to a Hemet somewhere in our family histories, but I can't place it. It isn't in the last hundred years, I'm sure of that."
"Maybe before the reconstruction. It could be a noble line out of Ild-Eldir. Before it mostly fell into the ocean of course," offered Earkey.
"Actually,” added Mr. Brightstar, “I think Thaddius can help us to narrow down the time frame. My lady, if you would be so kind." The mystery box was passed down from Lady Calanth to Mr. Brightstar, who handed it backwards to Tad, who was standing with the other servers. "Have a peek inside and tell me what you think."
Tad stepped forward, suddenly aware of the nine pairs of eyes (not counting the servants), all focused on him. He chose to ignore the writing on the outside of the box for the moment and removed the lid. Inside was a kind of crow-like bird in flight, about nine inches from wingtip to wingtip, crafted in bronze. It was so realistic it looked as if a real bird had been captured in time and instantly turned into metal. When he looked closer, he could see that every individual feather had been defined in minute detail.
Using a napkin from the table to avoid touching the precious piece, Tad picked it up and turned it over. The heaviness of the thing belied the the feathers, which looked as if they could catch the wind at any moment. Underneath, the figure wasn't flat, or less detailed, or in any way inferior. It was just the same bird seen from below. He examined the edges of the wing for tell-tale signs of the molding typically used for this kind of work, but the only disturbance he found was that of the air that ruffled the very tip of the animal's feathers as it flew, frozen in time.
"It is fifth century, most likely between four sixty and four ninety-nine,” pronounced the boy.
Beauchamp, the Lady's healer, snorted. "What kind of parlor trick is this, Mr. Brightstar?"
"It isn't a parlor trick sir,” responded Tad, trying to keep that note of defiance out of his voice, the one that sometimes got him into trouble with his tutors, “it's a Harapa, from the master's own hand. I recognize it because my cousin was a journey silversmith, and I spent time in his workshop. I would have appenticed with his master if he had had room for me."
"Young man, almost being an apprentice silversmith does not make you an expert on bronzes."
"No sir. But Harapas are special, you can’t miss them. Nothing like them at all, not in bronze anyway. I've seen two others: one in my cousin's master's workstop, and another while traveling with Master Nolan." Tad put the piece lovingly back in it's box. "So ... Did you find out what the enchantment does?"
The whole table erupted into a wordless noise of disgruntlement. Thaddius had definitely said something wrong. Mortified, he tried to appologize to his master. "I'm very sorry sir," he said as queitly as he could while still being heard over the other voices, "I didn't mean to make people mad."
Far from being angry, Nolan waved away the appology. "Oh not at all, you're doing a splendid job."
The noise at the table died down as Minzerec lifted his hand for attention. "Young Thaddius, if you please. Perhaps you can explain to a room full of educated and accomplished people ... how is it you know the object is enchanted when I myself could not detect it?"
"Well sir, that's part of the legend. When Harapa worked on his masterpieces he did it in secret so nobody could steal his techniques. He never signed them, because he wanted them to be perfect. He never repeated himself. And he charged so much money that only Wizards would buy them. I guess for some reason his stuff was good for enchantments. The candlesticks I saw would burn candles really bright, without ever using them up, so maybe that part of the legend is true."
Nolan passed the box down to Aidan, "Aidan, if you please?" She picked up the bird and commanded it to "Speak." The thick bill began to move and a raspy voice cawed out in a high gravelly voice:
Old King Samit’s most feared powerThaddius stood there, under the eyes of everyone, skin tingling and his mind racing. King Samit was the first king of Aspera, twenty-three centuries ago. He had just read about the man days ago, in his Geranicus. Samit had been a deadly warrior and, according to Geranicus, a great ruler. But he didn't have power like a priest or a mage, not unless you counted ...
crushes armies, topples towers
sinks ships, forges woe
lights the dark,
undoes foes.
The Old Rook lies in bronze retired:
exiled Magi, hunted liar.
Before you seek what he concealed
ask this:
Is truth always best revealed?
... "not the relics of Samit, sir? Do you think it's talking about one of them? I thought they were all supposed to be lost."
"An interesting turn of phrase. Why don't you refresh our memories from your book?"
Tad produced the book from his jacket pocket and thumbed backward from his bookmark ("At War With the Imperium") until he reached a small subheading in the first third of the little tome.
"Read it out loud enough for us down here," called Calanth from the far end of the table.
Thaddius began,
The Relics of Samit
Samit claimed his rule was by divine right, as evidenced by possession of three holy relics. These were given to him by the priests of the temples at Oxhed, Nychanter, and Corak, as a symbol of his fitness to rule and the favor of the gods. As we will see later, much of the romance of the First King surround these mystical artifacts, and the deeds he performed with them.
The most famous of these was the sword Enercrist, with which he subdued his enemies. The sword could cut through even the thickest of armor, drive away fear, and destroy undead. The second relic was the throne from whence King Samit dispensed justice. No lie, deceit, or disguise could endure its presence. The last relic was the royal scepter, which had the power to break any magic at the King’s will.
When Samit died his three sons divided the relics among them. Over the the course of several centuries their families guarded the items jelously until wars and subterfuges caused all the relics to be lost.
Enercrist
The most famous relic was the sword Enercrist, which was willed to the King's oldest son Jamyt. His precise reasons for willing the great sword to his eldest son was never explained, but the course of history suggests there was some logic. As the best recognized of all the relics, it was reasonable to give it to the son who would be king. King Jamyt also had a very combative personality, much like his father before him, and possession of the sword suited his temperment.
Enercrist was last wielded by King Levonitas the Younger when he ejected the Empire from Aspera c.330 CE. That war ended when King Levonitas and the emperor's War Marshal met each other on the field of battle in personal combat. Levonitas carried the day, but the sword was broken during the fight.
Records state that the shards of Enercrist were entombed with its last master, deep under Oxhed. Rumors persist that the pieces of Enercrist are kept in the royal armory, or that the sword was never broken at all. But these are entirely unsubstantiated.
The High Seat
Samit willed his throne to his youngest son Ulstrom. Still a very young man then, Prince Ulstrom had what his father called "good horse sense", and in his adult years the youngest prince was known for his insight and his keen sense of justice. In time he became High Justicar of the realm. He ran an itinerant high court, constantly touring the kingdom to hear cases instead of remaining in Oxhed. Samit's throne went with Ulstrom as he traveled his circuit, and in time acquired such monikers as “the High Seat”, and “Seat of Justice”.
All of this left Ulstrom's brother the King without a throne to sit on. King Jamyt built a grander one out of rare woods and precious metals, more fit for a king in its appearance. Later kings tried to take possession of the High Seat, which was ultimately spirited away by Ulstrom's descendants. It resurfaced again briefly after Asperian independence from the empire, but disappeared again in the fifth century.
Orb of Nychanter
Samit's middle son Kagan received the scepter. It was a rod of cold iron capped with a platinum design on the bottom, and at the top a massive diamond shaped into a many-faceted orb. Although seldom seen, the Orb was reportedly in the possession of Kagan's family in the palace of Nychanter where it was never publicly displayed (perhaps because of its obvious intrinsic value).
The Orb was verifiably seen at least twice after Samit's death. Once it was used to defeat the enchantress Kotmar when she tried to lay a spell on the entire keep. It was used again during the war against Emperor Mosyph. It gave the emperor so much trouble that he confiscated it, but it was returned to Kagan's descendants as part of the terms of Asperian surrender.
The Orb reportedly remained in the care of Kagan's descendants until 989, when floods washed away the palace along with most of the city. But in fact there are no documented sightings of the orb after 1 BCE.
"So which of these do we think is the most feared?" speculated the Bishop.
"The sword" said both of the sisters.
"The scepter," said Minzerec with his usual certainly.
"The Throne," pronounced Lady Calanth at the same time as the others.
Thaddius took the bird from Aidan, then put it back into its box and gingerly closed the lid. On it was inlaid in gold script:
Whiterose Hall holds for you what should not be lost, but can not be used.
You hold for us, when we can not hold for ourselves.
This our covenant is signed in the blood of Hemet’s sons.
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