Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1) (69 page)

“Liru,” he said. “You never told me how you came
by another weapon. You only took the dagger. What did you throw at Rork?”

She looked away and peered into the fire, which Aedan
thought odd as she was normally so direct. She replied with only a hint of
embarrassment, “Your boot.”

“Are you ready for this?” Fergal asked.

“Yes,” Aedan said. It was the right answer. It was
the only answer, though he and Fergal both knew it to be wind. He looked at the
palace and unthinkingly clenched his fists. When he noticed a guard looking at
him, he compelled himself to relax and assume a posture more befitting a humble
subject.

They had returned to Castath slowly because of injuries,
so the journey had taken almost two months. Eastridge was now a military
outpost. It was secure, but the presence of soldiers was a hard reminder of the
cruelty that lurked beyond the mountains.

When the travellers had crested the last rise and
the broad grasslands and proud city of Castath stood beneath them again, Aedan
had been struck by its frailness after the mighty walls and hulking sentinels
of Kultûhm. Still, the improvements to defences were considerable.

The outer walls had grown taller and there was
work taking place on the nearby hill. He felt proud to have been a part of
those designs. And then the pride fell and withered with a blade in its back.
Betrayal. He could not shake it from his mind. He had been betrayed. Liru,
Culver, Fergal – they had all served the city, and the prince had been willing
to have them slaughtered to suppress an honest yet inconvenient suspicion of
danger.

The only thing that kept Aedan’s anger in check
was his caution.

Leaving Castath was an option, but it would mean leaving
those who had become family to him. He did not have the heart to start over,
not again, not yet. And he still had much to learn.

The party was silent as the bustle of country
roads became the familiar rumble of the city – clopping hooves, rattling
wheels, the shouting of peasants, haggling of merchants, and the wild games of
children. After months of quiet travel it was an overwhelming onslaught. They
were approaching the city gate when they were intercepted by a jingling
regiment of the special guard, silver armour and spotless white tunics flashing
in the sun. The captain of the regiment summoned them to the keep, immediately.

They had expected this.

When they arrived, the whole group, enclosed in a
cage of marching soldiers, was taken into the centre of the courtyard where
they now waited.

Aedan glanced over at Liru. She looked as angry as
he felt. This was not a reception of welcome or thanks. It was quarantine.

At a signal, the regiment marched them into the
main building. This time they were shown into a windowless chamber, thickly
carpeted and lavishly ornamented, where only the prince and Ganavant awaited
them, each behind a large desk.

“Welcome! Welcome!” Burkhart cried, throwing his
arms open as if he would embrace them, and staying behind his desk.

Ganavant did not smile.

“We have so much to discuss and I am eager to hear
what you have discovered. The whole city is abuzz over your return – somehow
the news of your approach arrived before you did.”

It was almost a question. His eyes had a hard
glint as they darted from one member of the party to the next, but nobody
offered an explanation.

Aedan thought back to the conversation he had
noticed between Fergal and a young courier while they were still a ways out. Cunning.
The widespread curiosity would make secret murders difficult. He wondered if
that would be enough.

When nobody in the group offered a reply, Burkhart
resumed. “Before we get started, tell me, what has become of the rest of the
party? Where are Culver and the other soldiers?”

Fergal had reverted to his passive, subordinate
role. To the prince, he would be no more than a voluminous and offensively
bushy clerk. It was Osric who replied.

“Culver is dead, along with Commander Thormar and
all the soldiers except those sent back to Eastridge and the two you see here.
We encountered many hardships along the way.”

“Osric,” said Ganavant, “how is it that you were
among this number? The prince’s commission did not include you.”

“You are correct, Ganavant. It did not include me,
but neither did it exclude me. My standing commission from the king in Tullenroe
is to ensure the safety of the southern empire and the success of its ventures.
When this venture – deemed of the highest importance by our prince – came under
threat, my duty was clear. I am surprised it is not clear to you.”

“Your judgements strike me as ill-considered and
wasteful of resources. You are a general. A whole town had been lost and you
chose to accompany a small band of travellers.”

Osric never made threats. His reputation and
presence were so intimidating that he did not need to. He turned now and faced
Ganavant with a look that caused even the furniture to gulp.

“Truly Ganavant? Is that how they strike you? Despite
the fact that Eastridge was recovered without the loss of a single soldier? Despite
the fact that you are still in complete ignorance of what Culver’s party faced?
Despite the fact that our prince here named the quest an inquiry of the highest
importance, and without my presence it would certainly have failed? Your
assessment is strangely at odds with the facts, Councillor.”

“You exceeded your orders,” Ganavant snapped. “You
interfered where you were not authorised.”

Osric stepped forward, dropped his plate-sized
hands on the table and leaned towards Ganavant. “Interfered?” he said, “Now why
would you choose that word? Am I to understand that you had some desire to deliberately
exclude the first general of the realm from this quest?”

Any other man would have backed away, but Ganavant
stood where he was and looked up with toad-like detachment that could have been
indifference or calculation. Aedan had never seen anyone stand up to the
general before. Osric was frightening, but it was not Osric who seemed the more
dangerous of the two. There was something unnatural, something disturbing about
those big slithering eyes that seemed always to be measuring, just waiting for
the range to be right.

“Osric,” the prince said, “I concede that Ganavant
has been less than cordial. I would ask that we put this behind us and move on.
Will you tell me what befell the party, why so many were lost? And please, let
us be seated. I have much to ask and I would have you all comfortable.”

The velvet-cushioned chairs looked as delicate as
sea shells with spindly flamingo legs. Aedan glanced over at Osric’s, half
expecting it to crumple under the bull-weight for which it was clearly not
designed.

When it held together, he chanced a quick look at
the prince. Burkhart was attired in his usual carefree way. He seemed almost to
disdain the elegant fripperies of royalty, as if he wanted to look like a man
of the people, comfortable as one of them. But his eyes were not comfortable.
They would not settle anywhere, and shadows hung beneath them in spite of a
nose that glowed more brightly than before. His cheeks, once pudgy, were taut.
Every now and then they would jump and twitch as if spiders wriggled under the
skin. This was the face of a man beset by worries, anchored to the floor of a
rising sea. Still, he was working hard to appear jovial, leaning back in his
chair and fixing a kindly expression on his wilted features.

After seating himself, Osric detailed the journey.

Aedan saw the events as they unfolded in his
mind’s eye to the rhythm of Osric’s words. But something distracted him. A
slight movement of Merter’s head revealed that he had heard it too. The tread
and scuffle of boots – many boots – in the hallway outside. More than the
escort that had brought them in. The steps were quiet, but there were too many
for them to remain unheard. They were soldiers. Aedan was sure of it – soldiers
were not known for stealth. Ganavant showed no reaction, but the prince
coughed, leaned in his chair, crossed and re-crossed his legs. He almost
succeeded in drowning out the sound.

Osric’s voice did not waver. He spoke on. When he
reached the stage where the soldiers deserted, the prince interrupted.

“I would not have expected soldiers to desert or
rebel under a general’s command,” he said.

“It is a point well made,” Osric replied, something
glinting in his eye. “But these men, I happen to know, were decommissioned and were
meant to be serving time in the barrack prison for various crimes, all of them
serious – insubordination, defection, striking an officer. They were not
soldiers but law-breakers. How is it that they ended up under Senbert’s command?”

Ganavant pointed. “Senbert,” he said. “Consider
yourself under arrest.”

“Highness,” Osric interrupted, “it seems that your
councillor is unaware – a captain does not have the authority to release prisoners.
The order could only have come from much higher. I would be deeply interested
to learn who signed those releases.”

For a moment, nobody spoke. If Ganavant was
concerned, he did not show it. He actually seemed amused at Osric’s tone.

“You leave this to me,” said the prince. “It is
best that you do not speak of the matter again. I’ll investigate it myself.”

“Actually,” Osric said. “I should inform you that
I have already written of the matter in my last report to your father.”

Ganavant shifted slightly, but Burkhart leapt to
his feet and shouted, “You wrote to the king! About this!”

“Naturally. It is my responsibility. I am the
first general of the realm. My eyes are the king’s.”

Ganavant turned to the prince. “They must have
intercepted the courier near the city gate,” he said. “Shall I issue a recall?”

The prince nodded and Ganavant stamped over to the
door. “Quick!” he yelled to the guards outside. “Put together a squad of
rangers. Find today’s north-bound courier. Arrest him and bring him to me. If
the seals on any documents are broken I’ll throw you and every one of the
rangers in prison.”

There was a barked “Yessir” and a clatter of
receding boots.

Aedan could have cried with dismay. That had been
Osric’s security. Why had he spoken of it? There was no courier who could avoid
a squad of rangers.

Osric turned to Ganavant. “Why did you not tell me
before you did that?” he asked.

“Because you have already
interfered
enough,” the councillor said, emphasising the word this time as he sat.

“It would only have been to save you the trouble
and the waste of resources, which I understand to be of great concern to you.”

“No waste. The rangers and your letter will be
back before the day is over.”

“I’m afraid that is not likely.”

“General Osric, how is one courier going to avoid
a team of my men. It seems your wits are not what they say. Unless you managed
to find a flying horse, there is no doubt of the outcome. Did you use a flying
horse?” Ganavant asked with a smirk.

“I think it was a mule cart.”

“And why in the name of summer snow would my
rangers not catch your mule cart?”

“Because the cart left over three months ago. I
dispatched my report before leaving for Kultûhm. The package I sent earlier
today contains a letter and a small gift for my niece on her birthday.”

Ganavant stopped smirking. Burkhart, by the
whiteness of his face, appeared to have stopped breathing.

Osric continued. “The king’s personal emissary and
military escort should enter our gates within the month. If he finds so much as
a whiff of foul dealing, the position of first councillor might just become a
dangerous one. I hope, for your sake, that there are no stains when he
arrives.”

The room fell silent.

Ganavant fixed his eyes on Osric. This time there
was no indifference. The smile lingered, but it was sickly, and poisonous.

Prince Burkhart recovered himself with somewhat
more effort. “I will be glad to welcome the royal emissary on his arrival,” he
stammered, and paused to cough. “I have no doubt that everything will be found
to be in order. Will you excuse me for just a moment?” He walked to the door
and slipped outside. The boots were much quieter this time as they withdrew,
but soldiers truly were not famed for stealth.

When Burkhart returned, he was in better
possession of himself and asked Osric to resume.

Osric told of the entry into the fortress, though
he held back several details.

“A snake?” said the Prince. “Is that all? Surely a
company of armed men could deal with a big snake. Could we not send a larger
detachment to drive it off and harvest the treasures of Kultûhm?”

“It is too big. Its head would not get through the
door.”

Ganavant threw his quill down and glared with open
disgust.

Osric ignored him. “And it is changed in more ways
than size. A hundred attackers would not survive as long as it took to count
them. We owe our escape more to luck than anything else. I believe this
creature is the reason the fortress was abandoned and the reason it remains
that way.”

“That would make it almost a thousand years old,”
said Burkhart. “That’s not natural.”