Tad Williams - Shadowheart

“Perin’s Hammer, Dab, why are there no archers on the walls?” His good mood blew away in a moment, chased by fear. The responsibility of protecting Briony seemed almost impossibly large. “What do you expect the men up there to do if the Xixians play some trick? Spit on them? This is the life of the king’s only daughter in our hands!”

“The archers are on the way, Captain Vansen,” Dawley assured him. “Ten Kertishmen, good shots every one. They will be there as you ordered.”

“I would have been even happier if you’d said ‘ten Dalesmen.’” Vansen mopped his brow. He was terrified that something might go wrong, just when a happiness he had never believed possible was in his hands. “Tell me when these bowmen are in place.” Vansen looked around. The pavilion that had been built covered much of the spit of land in front of the Basilisk Gate; the road up the rocky slope was all that remained of the near end of the mainland causeway. Vansen didn’t really believe the Xixians planned any treachery, not with their own new monarch accompanying them, but Ferras Vansen didn’t trust the Xixians not to do something arrogantly stupid. As Donal Murroy had always told him, it was better to be ready than to be sorry.

The day had turned out fine and sunny, with a fresh warm wind off the bay, and the attendants began rolling back the curtains of the pavilion as Briony arrived with the rest of her guards and Prince Eneas, who had brought a small company of his own men—“the Temple Dogs,” as he called them. Ferras Vansen thought it a showy name for what was only another group of soldiers, after all. He had never held with the Syannese custom of self-glorying nicknames.

He approached Princess Briony, bowed, and said, “The guards are all in place, Highness. You will be as safe here as men can make you.”

To his alarm, she laughed. He looked up, terrified he would see mockery, but the look on her face seemed to be a fond one. “Captain Vansen, we will have to return to the subject of your promotion soon. If you remain with the royal guard, you will drain the resources of the kingdom protecting me. I think I see three pentecounts of soldiers here!”

He felt himself flushing and cursed silently. “Your Highness is the heart of Southmarch. You have come through too much for us to risk losing you now.”

“He is right, Princess,” said Eneas in his soft midlander accent.

Vansen was doing his best not to hate the man. From everything he had heard, the Syannese prince was not only an honorable man and an admirable soldier but had been a gentleman and true friend to Briony as well; if Vansen had not feared him so much, he would have wished the chance to know him better. But Eneas had every right to marry Briony, while Ferras Vansen, however she might feel about him, had none. Even now, with his heart more firmly hers than ever before, Vansen felt certain she would do the politic thing—in truth, the only sensible thing—and marry the prince of Syan.

And then I will have to leave this place I love, as well as the only woman I desire. He did his best to push away self-pity. But what can be done, after all? I am a soldier, she is my queen—the heights are not meant for such as me. At least I have the sun and the wind back again.…

How long had he spent entombed in deathly twilight or under a terrible reach of stone? He had gone so long without open sky and bright sun in the year past that he had forgotten the simple goodness of its warmth on his skin, as well as the bewitching tang of sea air which to a boy of the distant hills still seemed a kind of magic, the stuff of his father’s stories.

He must have missed it, Vansen thought. Must have missed the sea when he left it and his home behind. A thought was in his head now, and he had to dig at it carefully to find its true shape. Even more, he must have loved my mother very much to give it up.

“’Ware the ship!” shouted someone from the wall. Vansen turned to see a small, covered boat bobbing toward them over the swells, the oars on each side moving like the legs of a water beetle. It was painted and gilded in the full glory of the Xixian colors, a huge carving of a spread-winged falcon perched on its prow as if trying to lift the entire craft from the water and fly away with it.

A fitting symbol, Vansen thought with a twinge of satisfaction. They thought they had the strength to take what they wanted here, but they underestimated the will of the Marchmen… especially the courage of the Funderlings. And now they come to us as humble as you please.

When the boat had been drawn up to the makeshift dock, built from the last stones that remained of the causeway, a group of Xixian soldiers in leopard-spotted cloaks filed off it and lined up on either side of the causeway, followed by a slow-moving figure in an elaborate ceremonial robe. As this lean old fellow made his way forward, propped on the arm of a youthful servant, the soldiers still on the boat began to lift out a large, covered litter.

The old man reached the front of the pavilion where Briony sat with Eneas standing protectively beside her. The prince of Syan looked so much the handsome royal husband already that Vansen could have happily seen him shot with an arrow. The Xixian made an elaborate bow that did not quite cross over into actual humility. Then the youthful servant made a shrill announcement that his stumbling words suggested he had been forced to memorize, “I parsent His Revered Seff… Revered Self , the Wise Elder, Paramount Mis… Minister Pinimmon Vash.”

“You are safe in our company, Minister Vash,” Briony told the old man. “And so are all who travel with you.”

The paramount minister pressed his hands together and bowed to her again. “Your Highness is too kind. Before we begin our formal discussion, may I take this moment to extend my deepest sorrows on the death of your father? I came to know him well in the last months—almost we were friends, I would say ...”

“Friends?” Briony’s voice had lost its smooth strength. “Your master killed my father, Minister Vash. Is this not hypocritical, to feign sorrow?”

“It is not feigned, Highness,” he said with the ease of a veteran courtier. “And it is about my late… master that we wish to speak.”

“We?”

“My present monarch… and myself. But I must beg your indulgence. Autarch Prusus has certain frailties that make it difficult for him to speak clearly. We hope you will indulge us and let me assist him.”

“How do we know you will not simply say what you wish—that you are not the true ruler of Xis now?” demanded Eneas.

“Oh, my master can speak your tongue,” the old man assured him. “He is a scholar. But it is difficult for him.” At this, Vash turned and clapped his hands. The litter was carried forward and set down in front of the pavilion. When the curtains were drawn back even Briony had a difficult time hiding her surprise.

The new autarch was a simpleton, or so it appeared, his head lolling, a sheen of drool on his chin. Even his legs and arms seemed unwilling to be led by such a creature and seemed to be struggling clumsily to remove themselves from his trunk.

“Forgive me, but what is this?” demanded Prince Eneas. “Is this a jest or a trick, Xixian?”

“Please, Highness,” Briony said. “Do not be hasty. Autarch Prusus, do you understand me?”

The man in the litter nodded, a complicated affair of wags and hitches.

“And do you truly speak our tongue?”

The autarch made a long series of stammering noises. Vansen actually heard a word he understood. “… Dignity .”

“He says he does, and he apologizes,” Vash said. “The Golden One says the gods gave him more wit than dignity.”