Tower of the Arkein: Kan Savasci Cycle Book 2, page 19
The barge approached and Aeden watched as the crewmen set to the task of securing the boat to the pier.
The group disembarked with little fanfare. The crewmen made quick work of tying the leads to the pier. They busied themselves with moving the group’s luggage from the cabin to the rickety jetty.
Aeden glanced beyond the activity and beyond the shadow of the great finger of stone to the roadway. Waiting upon a rutted path was a carriage led by two horses. It was unassuming in appearance, solid and simple in its construction.
An old man as weathered as the pier stood holding the reins to the horses. His face looked to be made of leather, cracked, and wrinkled like an old book’s cover. He watched them approach, but made no move to get up or help.
“Let’s load up,” Yates said.
Aeden turned to see the guard grab a bag and heft it onto his shoulder.
“Prayer won’t load these bags monk-boy,” Dixon said, walking past with a bag upon each shoulder.
Despite “traveling light,” the archduchess had more bags than the rest of them combined. Aeden grabbed two bags in an effort to make up for his initial hesitation and to not be outdone by Dixon.
He struggled as he walked the rickety pier. He was already breathing hard as he passed Dixon. Aeden could have sworn he saw a hint of a smile pass over the stoic man’s features. It was a temporary moment of triumph as he reached the carriage with beads of sweat welling up on his forehead.
He stuffed the bags into the heart of the wooden carriage. He then paused a moment to catch his breath. As Dixon approached, Aeden stood up straight and appeared to be looking at the carriage. It was only then that he appreciated the greater complexity of design. He’d ridden in carriages before, but typically they were open or partially covered by cloth and were generally quite uncomfortable.
This carriage had a pivoting front axle and the wooden, enclosed body was separated from the axles, suspended by metal chains. A small bench rested in front, while the enclosed area appeared to have seating for four. Another platform rested on the back.
“Let’s go,” the Bodigan said, slapping him roughly on the back.
Aeden’s attention was snapped back into the moment from the weight of the guard’s meaty hand.
Aeden wasn’t sure what protocol demanded in a situation like this. In Sha’ril, only nobility travelled by carriage, typically held by a team of slaves. When traversing through Chur he had found out that it was customary to sit up front with the driver. Sitting in the back was considered insulting and bad luck. In Bodig and Gemynd one sat in the back so as to not inconvenience the driver.
This seemed different. The archduchess was nobility. He’d only ridden with wealthy farmers and merchants.
“Only women ride inside,” Dixon whispered, as he brushed past and clambered onto the rear platform.
It seemed that answered his question. Aeden nodded to himself and decided to squeeze onto the rear platform with Yates and Dixon. There was no way he’d fit on the bench next to the Bodigan and the old man driver.
“Not there,” the archduchess said, leaning her head out, “you still owe me a story.”
Aeden glanced toward Dixon. Dixon’s lip curled into a partial smile. Perhaps Aeden was finally beginning to understand him.
“Yes, my lady,” he said, climbing inside the carriage.
Although he was embarrassed, he could barely contain his excitement. He had been hoping to be alone with her for the last two days, and finally they would be. As much as a small wagon would allow of course.
“I haven’t finished my story,” the archduchess stated, justifying her invitation, “and you still have to honor your part of our agreement.”
Aeden nodded dumbly as he took a seat opposite her.
With a start, the carriage began down the old Calenite Imperial Road. The stones were rutted with age. Although a massive campaign to improve and expand the roads was underway. It was such a large project, that at any given time, many of the old roads were barely serviceable.
“My lady,” Aeden began, “if I may, can I ask a question?”
Aeden struggled to remember the lessons Francis had instilled only days earlier. Although he had lived in Bodig longer than the A’sh, in certain ways he felt quite ignorant to its customs. More particularly, the intricate courtesies demanded by the nobility.
“It seems you already have,” she replied.
Aeden frowned slightly. Was she toying with him again? He decided to ignore it and asked anyway.
“Where are we going?”
Alina regarded him for a long moment as if contemplating an answer.
“To the Monastery of the Cave, as it’s commonly known, in an older tongue it has another name,” she paused trying to remember the words, “Keie Hamian.”
Aeden repeated the last words, “Keie Hamian.”
He then looked up at her.
“Why the secrecy?”
“Because you had so cleverly decided to upset one of the most spiteful men in all of Bodig!” she exclaimed.
Aeden swallowed his pride and looked out the open-aired window. She was referring to Rory, the Master of Arms. He’d managed to insult Rory in front of the archduchess and his men. To make matters worse he had later found out that Rory was a self-proclaimed master who had won every sword fight he’d ever been in. What rumors now circled Bodig? Aeden wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.
Instead, he busied himself with the scenery. Mountains graced the horizon far to the south. The sky was marked by small, white clouds. The breeze was warm and gentle. His mind traveled from his misstep to the archduchess’ words. He seemed to recall something Adel had told him back in the monastery.
“The Monastery of the Cave is a pilgrimage site,” Aeden said, hoping to change subjects.
She merely nodded. The silence lingered for a moment longer like the echoing rush of blood against one’s ears.
“It’s also a key political position, strategically, for the Church of Salvare. The monks there still practice the old ways as taught by the Book of Khein,” she said the last heavily and looked out the window as well, “somewhat to the dismay of Sawol Royalty.”
Aeden’s mind worked on the pieces of the puzzle he knew. He recalled the map upon the large table when he had last met with the High Priest. He remembered markers within central Sawol, possibly demarcating the Cave of the Monastery. Had the High Priest planned for this all along?
Aeden then thought on the military officer. What role did he play? He had stood overseeing the map. He had even asked a few questions about the Jal.
Finally, his thoughts settled on Rory, Master of Arms, the High Priest’s son. The man he had embarrassed. The man they were fleeing from.
Something didn’t feel right. He just couldn’t put his finger on it. It was the subtle itch of premonition. It was the feeling of being manipulated by hidden, unseen hands.
“Why you and not your uncle?” Aeden asked, trying to fill the gaps of the half-solved puzzle.
Alina’s face became sharp and angry.
“You presume because I’m a woman I cannot negotiate? I cannot think?”
Aeden was taken aback. He turned red and looked away to spare them both from shame. Thoughts of trying to figure out the situation dissolved under her glare.
“My lady,” Aeden began apologetically, “Please, I meant no insult, I was simply wondering aloud.”
The archduchess didn’t look at him. In fact, she looked everywhere but him. Aeden suddenly felt uncomfortable and wished he were standing on the rear platform. At least there he could enjoy the mock sincerity of Yates or the taciturn humor of Dixon.
He seemed to have a habit of turning a good situation sour. He was about to speak when he thought better of it. What had the master of S’Velt told him before his trials? “Wisdom is learning to keep your mouth shut when you have nothing of value to say.”
Thankfully, it was Alina who broke the silence.
“I forget that you’re just a barbarian,” she finally said, “and unaccustomed to our ways.”
If that was supposed to make him feel better it didn’t, yet somehow her blunt honesty made him smile.
“I wouldn’t say barbarian…” he said slowly.
“No?” she questioned sharply.
“Brute perhaps,” Aeden said, “maybe even a touch coarse around the edges, but not a barbarian.”
Alina regarded him oddly for a long moment. Aeden watched the emotions roll across her face. Anger, resignation, and finally a hint of elation tugging at her lips. Lips, he desperately wanted to caress with his own. His discipline felt like a heavy stone in turbulent waters, slowly tumbling along the riverbed toward impending disaster.
“Well, it seems this brute knows little of customs and nobility,” the archduchess chided.
Aeden thought on it. She was right. It was a glaring hole in his ever-expanding understanding of Verold.
“Does my lady care to educate me in such matters?” Aeden offered, “What else vexes the nobility?”
At that moment, they hit a small hole in the road. The carriage shook and swayed as it carried on. The archduchess looked up and stared him in the eye.
“You want to know what bothers me most?” Alina asked rhetorically.
Aeden merely nodded, leaning slightly forward in his seat.
“You wouldn’t understand,” she said at last.
Aeden looked to the floor for a moment. Undeterred, he pressed on.
“My lady, I have witnessed things I could never have imagined,” Aeden started, “I doubt that what vexes you would surprise me.”
The archduchess smiled slightly. It wasn’t a smile of pleasure, but of a challenge.
“I doubt it,” she said. “Let’s play a game.”
Aeden felt himself getting excited. He enjoyed games and he could think of any number he’d like to play with the beautiful archduchess.
“If you can guess what bothers me, I will carry on with my story of Huta and Balder, however, if you cannot, then you will have to tell me a story.”
Aeden nodded his head slowly. It seemed easy enough. What simplicities bothered the rich? Not knowing what finery to wear to the latest ball? He figured he could do quite well at this game. His only concern was the possibility of offending her. Too much truth often unnerved the most courageous of people.
“You have a deal my lady,” Aeden said.
“Well then, get to it. Tell me what bothers me most.”
Aeden looked out the window for a moment, collecting his thoughts.
“For starters, I imagine a proper lack of formality would be quite bothersome, especially when us lowly barbarians fail to recognize your station through the appropriate choice of words,” he smiled and finished with, “my lady.”
Alina snorted and rolled her eyes.
“You’ll have to do better than that if you wish to have any hope of winning,” she said.
Aeden narrowed his eyes. He searched his brain, thinking of what problems the rich had compared to that of the poor. So many of the problems seemed absurd in his mind that he couldn’t bring himself to say them.
“Not getting to choose the person you love,” Aeden said at last.
The archduchess remained quiet for a moment. She regarded him oddly before looking out the window.
“Is that it?” she said after a long pause.
Aeden nodded his head. He couldn’t think of much to say. Certainly, nothing that wouldn’t offend her.
“Well then, it seems I’ve won,” Alina stated.
“How do I know you’ve won if you haven’t told me what vexes you?”
The archduchess crossed her arms and leaned back.
“As you wish barbarian…” she sat back and took in a slow breath before beginning, “It’s the ignorance of the general populace. People think that because you’re noble, you’re free, happy, and that life is easy. What they fail to see is the chains of protocol that bind one to their station. The fear and deceit that are masked by smiles and sycophantry.
“They fail to hear their own contradictions and are ignorant on what it is to lead. They have no understanding on the challenges posed by the masses. They are impossible to please. Someone always thinks they have a better idea, despite not having any idea at all!”
Alina took in a breath and shook her head. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and continued, not done with her tirade. Aeden remained silent and listened, fascinated.
“People want better roads, but hate taxes, they want the safety of the King’s army and the freedom to travel without banditry, yet decry men in arms. They want more holidays filled with feasts and entertainment, but don’t wish to spend extra time plowing the fields, storing and milling their grain, or…or”
Alina fell quiet. She was now shaking her head. Her face was slightly flushed and she looked out at the landscape. Aeden could feel the dark cloud of discontentment wrap itself about her in binding lines of charcoal and grey.
He leaned forward and placed a hand gently on her knee. He wasn’t thinking, only reacting.
“I never knew my lady,” he said genuinely.
The archduchess looked up at him. She made no move to remove his hand. Aeden wasn’t even sure if she had noticed. He sat back, placing his own hands in his lap, before she had a chance to complain. She eyed him for a moment, her emotions settling firmly under her control. The cloud of displeasure receded. Her eyes softened about the edges, and she remembered to breathe.
“And what was this brute’s life like back in the Gwhelt?”
The question he had been dreading. It was now his turn to tell her of his life. What could he say? That his village had been destroyed and everyone he knew and loved had been violently torn from him, burned alive? Although, that wasn’t entirely true. Devon had survived. He had survived long enough for Aeden to betray him.
“My lady, if I tell you about my village and prior life I have one request.”
Alina raised an eyebrow at this.
“And what would this brutish Thane ask of the Archduchess, First House of Bodig, Holder of Keys?”
Aeden held her gaze, studying her dark eyes, taking in the gentle lines of her face, and savoring the soft curve of her neck.
“That you don’t judge this Thane too harshly,” he paused for a moment not sure if he was overreaching his bounds, “and that you share something small of yourself afterward.”
Alina sat quietly. She looked out the window for a moment before looking back to Aeden. She masked a smile as she spoke.
“It depends on the quality of your story,” she said, “entertain me.”
Chapter 41
“Stories are what we tell others to shape their perceptions of us.” Book of Muses - Library of Galdor
Aeden had relayed his story. Slowly at first.
He spoke of the training he undertook and the various tutelages required of him by his now deceased father. In turns, Aeden had apprenticed under the village black smith, the armorer, the medicine man, candlemaker, carpenter, herbalist as well as having spent time harvesting and planting in the field. He told the archduchess a few of the more entertaining stories of his martial studies.
It was what he didn’t talk about that most stood out. He discussed little of his father, the kovor. He said nothing of his mother, who had died during childbirth. And last, he did not mention the destruction of his home at the mouth of a mythological creature that should no longer exist.
Aeden fell silent. He whispered a silent prayer to the Thirteen and asked for forgiveness from the spirits of the S’Velt villagers. His stomach felt hollow and strange. Talking of home had drudged up memory. It reminded him of the subtle details that so easily fell away like a neglected and discarded relationship.
He remembered first the smells of the dining hall as the Master Cook prepared their meals. He could see the man’s oversized hands kneading the salted bread that Devon loved so much. Worse yet, were his memories of Dannon. Her smile. He had almost forgotten what her face had looked like. Only when he struggled could he recall her features.
Today he could see her clearly, as if she had only been talking to him yesterday. He could imagine her lithe body moving through the forms of the gevecht. He could see her face alternating between serious and playful. Last, he remembered the way she would sidle up to him in an attempt to catch him off-guard.
“What are you thinking?” the archduchess asked softly, reading him.
Aeden looked up at her. The memories coalescing in his mind began to fall away like a shattered puzzle.
“It’s funny what one remembers when digging into the past,” he finally said.
Alina nodded slowly.
“What continues to linger in that mind of yours?” she asked, genuinely curious.
Aeden struggled. Now even more memories were bubbling to the surface. Along with the memories came a barrage of emotion. It was a swelling tide that caught him unaware. He quickly became swept up in it and fought to keep his head above the fray.
“My lady,” he stammered, the words were weak as Aeden worked to find his voice.
She leaned forward. A strand of hair fell across her face. Her hand rested lightly on his. That single act of compassion was more than he could bear. His throat constricted and he was forced to look away. Tears danced at the edge of his vision. He didn’t want to look weak before the archduchess. What would she think seeing a member of the mighty Thane break down before her like a child?
“Have you ever heard of the Archduchess of Sorrow?” she said, her hand still resting lightly on his.
Her skin was so soft and warm. The gentle note of her pulse was felt through her finger tips as she smiled gently.
Aeden shook his head.
“Perhaps you’ve heard of the Bedeviled House of Keys,” she resumed, her eyes gentle, yet serious.
“No,” Aeden said, finding strength return to his voice.
“You really don’t know much of our history,” she chided, “those names refer to my family, the noble House of Cynesige.”
The quiet touch of curiosity tugged at his mind.
“Why?”
