From the back cover:
“Come at once. Ares is dying.” So reads the frantic message from Surchataine Nicole that brings Ares’ adopted son Henry out of exile after two years. When Henry arrives at Westford, he discovers vultures gathering over the province, eyeing Ares’ twin 14-year-old daughters, Sophie and Bonnie.

Accustomed to patrolling the wild western border of Lystra to keep out slavers, Henry must now readjust to courtly intrigues—a task made all the more difficult by the meaningless but conspicuous leper’s brand on his hand.

Matters come to a head when Surchatain Magnus of Scylla comes for an unexpected visit. He brings not only the spoiled, immature son he plans to marry off to Sophie, but a surprise guest who has designs on a most unwilling Henry.

CHAPTER ONE

The young man Henry pushed his faltering horse to a plodding lope on the market road northbound from Nicole’s Harbor. The animal was about to collapse under him; he could feel its trembling. Henry kicked the horse insistently before pulling his feet up out of the stirrups, for if it should die under him, he didn’t want his legs crushed under its dead weight.

Henry was not usually so heartless, appreciating as he did the value of a good horse on his long, lonely patrols along the far western border of Lystra. For the last two years he had been stationed at Odea, the solitary outpost defending the vast stretch of rugged country that stretched from the Green Lady in the south to the Poison Greens in the north. But three days ago he had received an urgent summons from Surchataine Nicole at Westford: “Come at once. Ares is dying.”

The remembered sight of the weary messenger holding out the sealed parchment caused Henry’s vision to blur even now. Ares, Surchatain of Lystra, Henry’s guardian from birth and surrogate father—Henry could not speculate what might have happened, and the messenger did not know—so he could only ride. He appropriated the strongest horse he could find (this dapple bay gelding dubbed “Spot”) and set out for Mcelyea at a dead run. He had intended to take a fast lateener from there to Nicole’s Harbor, but upon arrival in Mcelyea, discovered that the early spring storms had grounded all ships for the time being. So he had turned Spot up the coastal highway and ridden east through thunderstorms, darkness and whipping winds. For two and a half days he had slept little and eaten less in his determination to get to Westford in time. Now he was almost there—whether in time or not was yet to be seen.

He guided the lumbering animal around foot traffic, sheep, and carts, leaving the road to lope through newly ploughed fields when it looked to be faster. Travelers glanced askance at the wild-looking young man on the gasping, lathering horse. Henry’s threadbare army woolens might have indicated him to be a mercenary but for the prominent Blue insigne he wore on his collar. Being a member of the highest regiment of the Lystran army was an honor that Henry valued above any other.

Somehow, Spot knew to head for the bridge that crossed the Passage into Westford; laying flat his ears, he poured out the last of his strength pounding down the center of the road, scattering those unfortunate enough to be on foot in his path. They did not know that he must reach his destination or die.

But the animal bore his rider through the open gates into the cobbled courtyard, delivering him to the very steps of the palace of Westford before sinking to his knees amid merchants who drew their robes away from the frothing mouth in disgust and sentries who slapped the quivering haunches with orders to move. They were unaware that their security—the one who ensured their ability to sleep peacefully and conduct commerce freely—lay dying somewhere in the palace above them. Henry bounded up the courtyard steps without a glance behind, so did not see the young stablehand quietly take charge of his ride.

Moving through the crowded foyer as though he owned it, Henry began ascending the wide, curving stairway that he had gone up and down a thousand times over the years. More than one courtier eyed him in suspicion despite his insigne; he looked much different from the newly appointed Blue who fled at night two years ago. His curling hair was sun-drenched blond, almost shoulder-length; he had a short, sparse beard that was slightly darker blond. His grey eyes, habitually squinted in the sun, were surrounded by lines that made him look much older than his 22 years.

No one noticed anything alarming about his hands at this point, for he wore fingerless woolen gloves constantly. The right-hand glove covered the leper’s brand that he carried on the back of his hand. Far from being afflicted with the contagious, debilitating disease, Henry was as strong (and stubborn) as any beast of burden—he had been branded in his sleep by a stranger for no reason other than spite. But already this stigma was profoundly shaping Henry’s life.

He came to the door of the Surchatain’s receiving room, where the pair of sentries eyed him in a mute challenge. Resisting the senseless urge to enter by force, Henry said, “Surchataine Nicole summoned me from Odea. I am Henry.”

Not knowing “Henry,” one sentry demanded, “Show me your summons.”

Henry blinked, looking at the insigne on his collar: Gold. Both sentries were in the Gold Regiment, two levels below him. Therefore, in a manner inherited from his mentor and guardian, he lowered his voice to reply, “If he dies while I stand here and argue, I will come back out and kill you.”

The sentries exchanged startled glances, then the second leaned over to open the door. Henry strode in and glanced around the receiving room as four figures turned toward him. He recognized Father Birondo, Counselor Vogelsong, Doctor Savary, and Commander Thom. Their faces were grave and weary, shadowed in hopelessness. Henry noted the incongruity of the late-afternoon sunshine streaming through the open window where Ares’ little book lay on the sill.

Tearing his eyes from the empty window seat, Henry directed a salute to Commander Thom. The Commander, having lately grown rather stout, with a short, stiff beard, returned the salute before nodding toward the barely open door of the bedchamber.

The light from the receiving-room window did not penetrate far into the windowless inner room. At the door, Henry paused to let his eyes adjust, and a figure quickly came toward him. “Henry!” breathed Nicole, and he looked down on her.

Ten years older than he, his spiritual sister and guardian angel since his childhood, she looked more beautiful now than he had ever seen her, even with anxiety and grief clouding her green eyes. As he laid a brotherly hand on her shoulder, she turned toward the bed, and Henry raised his eyes to it.

Even before coming to the bedside, he heard the rasp of Ares’ breathing, the sound of which was like a fist in Henry’s stomach. He had heard the death rattle in a score of men before they died. “What happened?” he whispered. Speaking in a normal voice seemed profane.

“We don’t know!” Nicole whispered, her voice breaking. “Some days ago he just collapsed, and could not move. He was able to take nourishment for a while, but then sank deeper and deeper . . . the doctor does not know. . . .” She could say no more, so he did not press her. Approaching in quiet reverence, Henry leaned down to study Ares’ face: the closed eyes, the parched lips, the grey skin.

Where did all those lines in his face come from? They seemed almost as deep as the scar that cleft the right side of his face. And that grey hair! Ares had been hardly grey at all when Henry had left. What had left such a strong man lying supine now? Henry grasped his cold hand to feel the weak, fast pulse in his wrist. Almost indignant at these evidences of mortality, Henry said aloud, “Ares. You sent for me, and I have come.” His voice broke the stillness in the room, startling Nicole.

There was no reply, not even a fluttering of eyelids—only that wretched rasp. Henry glanced up at the tears streaming from Nicole’s face. Then he looked back down at his master, father, sovereign who was slipping away from them. “Ares! You have inconvenienced me considerably with such a hasty summons—now tell me what you want!” In the past, such impertinence had never failed to provoke a response . . . but not today. He was too far away to hear. Henry stood abruptly and turned to the door as Nicole fell weeping on the bed, gathering her precious lover in her arms.

Blind to everyone and everything, Henry strode out of the receiving room and trotted down the wide stairway to the foyer. He pushed his way through the milling crowd to the chapel and thrust open the doors. Here, he was displeased to see a group of fifty or so. A decent number of them were praying, but most appeared to be socializing or gossiping. One, apparently recognizing him, said, “Have you come from the Surchatain’s rooms? What is wrong with him? No one is telling us anything.”

Glancing around at the interested faces that turned his way, Henry walked to the dais at the front. “I regret to tell you,” he said, stripping off his right-hand glove, “that you all should leave now.” He then held up the back of his hand to display the leper’s brand.

Resounding with gasps and shrieks, the small hall cleared in seconds, with the lot of them shoving and clawing to put distance between themselves and the leper at the front. When no one remained, Henry went to the doors, picking up a hundred-pound bench on the way. He closed the doors and shoved the bench up against them. Then he turned back to regard the rough wooden cross, centuries old, that hung on the wall under the shaft of light from the window in the roof above.

“It’s just You and me now,” he said, fixing his eyes on the light above the cross. He walked forward until he stood at the dais just under the cross, which loomed over him. Eyes on the light, Henry sank to his knees; from there, he fell on his face before the cross. He struggled to form his roiling thoughts into words. While the words were inadequate, somehow, they were necessary, and he reminded himself that this was not a time for demands, but pleas.

“Oh, God. Merciful God almighty . . . we’re not ready,” he breathed. “Would You take him when we are so unprepared for it? I beg, I plead—have mercy. You will kill Nicole. Their daughters, Sophie and Bonnie—they would go too young to husbands—they are not yet fourteen! And I . . . I have had no chance to court Sophie, God. A few letters back and forth mean nothing. I don’t know how much she remembers me, or if she even cares to remember me.” He then seemed to remember that this session was not primarily about himself. But he never could beg or plead for long, preferring as he did to argue.

“Who would rule?” He rose to his knees, offended. “Nicole? Commander Thom? Vogelsong?” he snorted. Retreating from presumption, he lowered his face to the wooden planks, worn smooth and black with years of passing feet. He knew the power of the God whom he was addressing—he had seen that power evidenced too often to doubt Him. But since he had spent many a day and night on lonely patrol arguing with the Almighty, that longstanding habit asserted itself now.

“I see no good coming from this,” he said stubbornly. “From my branding, yes; from my exile in Odea, yes; even from the loss of all those wonderful hams to the wolves”—here he paused in acute distress at the recollection, which appeared to pain him more than the first two—“I can see good coming from even that, but to take this man now will batter us beyond reason. This is beyond reason,” he insisted.

He pressed his forehead into the dirt that packed the gaps between planks. He was achingly tired, his stomach raw with hunger . . . the temptation sidled over him to leave this most important matter until after he had strengthened himself with a bite to eat. Just a bite . . . the kitchen always had wonderful meat pies on hand— “And while I am filling my stomach, my father passes away to the destruction of us all,” he said through gritted teeth to the cloaked tempter. “Leave me! Dear God, let it be just You and me, as it always is, as it was that night I fell into the bog. You heard me then, I know You did—I know that You were the One who brought that stupid mare to the edge of the bog and caused the reins to fall down within my reach. You spared me then, when I am of so much less worth than the man who lies rasping upstairs. Why would You save me over and over, only to take a better man? God, it makes no sense,” he groaned.

He raised his eyes to the light above the cross. “You clothed yourself in flesh and died,” he whispered. “You died to save. Jesus, we cannot make it without this man. Some day, yes, when he has finished teaching me—” Here he broke off in the confused realization of what he was saying. That was one of the issues he had argued most with God about: was he to rule, or not? Was it ordained by God that he should be Surchatain after Ares, or was it a temptation of Satan? After all, Henry never forgot—was never able to forget—that his grandfather had usurped the throne of Lystra from Ares’ grandfather by multiple murders. Was the father of murderers inciting Henry to lust after a position that was not rightfully his, or was the Father of lights showing him his destiny? Had he any hope of being Sophie’s husband someday, or was that also vanity and wind? And to top it off, here he was praying on the assumption that Ares could not die yet because he, Henry, was not in a position to step in and rule. How absurdly selfish a prayer was that?

He pressed his face into the dirty wood in an agony of humiliation. “Jesus, make me a beggar at the kitchen door—a doorkeeper at the leprosarium—an exile forever from the people I love—just give us a few more years of his steadying hand. Whoever is to rule—I cannot see and I do not care—no one is ready now. No one has been made ready to take his place. You would leave us in darkness, confusion, and disorder. I cannot see how that is right. I cannot see how it would honor You. I cannot see it. . . .” Finally overcome by weariness, Henry closed his eyes.

He was aware of nothing else until a distant pounding reached his ears. Henry sat up blinking, wondering where he was. “Henry?” someone shouted, and the bench was rocked by outside efforts to open the doors. “Henry! You are summoned!” It was the unmistakable voice of Commander Thom delivering this command. Henry jumped up from the dais, silently calling down violent curses on himself for falling asleep in the middle of the most crucial argument of his life. He ran to the doors and tossed the bench aside. Flinging open the doors, he looked into the taut face of the Commander.

[Although this is not the end of the chapter, a significant plot development occurs here, so this is where we stop.]


Buy In Extremis.



© 2009 Robin Hardy



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