Ghost in the Yew: Volume One of the Vesteal Series Read online

  Bastards.

  I started up after them. He was right that I would not be allowed in line, but perhaps I could bribe one of father’s guards and find a spot on a low riser beneath his. No one had tried it in a long time, but I could think of nothing else that would prevent the fast-approaching humiliation. It would be the coup I needed—standing above my brothers in a warrior’s tunica waving at them as they marched. No one would miss me in my deep blue.

  A distance along the crowded corridor, I spotted a pair of Hessier and almost stumbled into a pillar. In a crowd of thousands, you could not miss them. They were the tallest of men and wore etched plate from head to foot, but this metal shell could not hide how pale they were. The cause of their unnatural state, whether by their own hand or priests’ magic, was a topic of wild rumor. It was misunderstood that my father controlled the Hessier, but his divine authority was confined to the body of the people— the divisions of Hemari, the Chancellery and its tax collectors, and the Council of Lords that held sway over the confederation of provinces. Nor were they controlled by Bayen’s Church which saw to the souls of the people—their red hat priests that propagated the faith, the College of Healers that oversaw the practice of Bayen’s magic, and the Tanayon Courts that adjudicated Bayen’s Laws. The Hessier were controlled by the third branch of Zoviya’s divine government, the Ministry of Security. It answered to Minister Sikhek and the Conservancy Doctrine, which prescribed singularly the preservation of the state.

  I angled away from the Hessier and avoided eye contact by examining my fingernails. I found dried blood along the top of my thumb and brushed it away. I turned my hand over and began examining my palm when a metal hand grabbed hold of my wrist.

  The Hessier it belonged to towered over me. His closed-face barbute helmet revealed only eyes, nose, and lips. His pale skin was a sickening shade of gray and he had neither eyebrows nor eye lashes.

  My lips and hands went numb, and a terror seized my guts and stole my voice. Another set of hands latched onto my shoulders. I wanted to shake them off, but my body refused me. They marched me back down the Deyalu and the river of my brothers parted for them.

  “His guardsman confessed,” one of them whispered. I tried to find the speaker, but the iron grip of their ugly magic prevented it.

  I had never been on the wrong side of these men and was revolted by the quality of their magic. I tried to call upon my strength and set these demons upon their backs but could find none of it. They marched me back to my residence.

  It was empty. Not one item remained in the wide rooms. Even the armory closet was barren. I was propelled through the servants’ doors, down a flight of stairs, and into a furor of bodies and sound. The herd of servants pressed itself into the sides of the ugly cavern.

  “Where are you taking me? I am a son of the Exaltier. A Yentif Prince of Zoviya. How dare you take me through this place. Let me go.”

  Their grip tightened, and I was forced down another flight of stairs. They kicked open the heavy doors at the bottom and dragged me into a carriage-filled tunnel that ran beneath the Deyalu. A dozen paces away, a pair of men stood beside a covered coach. One was a disheveled Hemari. The other wore a very particular mantel and etched armor. It was Sikhek, the Minister of Security, and the most feared of the Hessier. He turned and set his eyes upon me.

  Stars swirled, and all went black. My face twitched, and my head banged hard into something. The world was slow to come back into focus. I was on my side with my legs curled up and jammed against dark boards. I had been tossed into the carriage and was wedged into the space between the seats. The space smelled of dung and feet. I levered myself up into the dark and quiet of the paneled and shuttered coach.

  “Climb aboard, Alsman,” Sikhek said beyond. “The driver knows the road.”

  “Sikhek,” the other man responded, but if other words followed the first, I could not hear them. A long moment later, the coach jolted from the weight of a man climbing aboard.

  I tried to open the door, but something massive struck it and knocked me back. I sat and rubbed my hand.

  “This is not right,” I said and crossed my arms. “Father will stop this.”

  I waited for someone to call me up to the parade, but the carriage began to move.

  8

  Sergeant Leger Mertone

  The Rest of That Same Miserable Day

  The door to my cell did not stay closed long enough for me to find any measure of comfort. A pair of Hemari entered, and the heavy sword leveled at me by the first won my full attention. I rose as they bid and followed them through the dark spaces. The smell of the place got worse, and I puked on my boots. My hands twitched.

  The sword-wielding brute groaned. “Sorriest looking Hemari I’ve ever seen.”

  The other replied, “You see the thirty-star he’s wearing?”

  “What’s it to me? My uncle’s got one, too—was smart enough to retire with his.”

  “You should ask he what would think of this man. I know what my father would do if he were you.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “Put away his sword. Any man wearing one of those served in Heneur and left blood and brothers in those mountains.”

  He sheathed his sword and mumbled an apology to me. They said more words, but I ignored them in favor of friendly dreams of wine. I puked again but didn’t make them wait for me. I knew what my last request would be. My mouth watered.

  But then they turned along another corridor, one that ran beneath the Deyalu, and I lost any sense of where they could be taking me. They led me up into a wide carriageway tunnel to an old, black carriage and a steel-plated Hessier wearing a long azure mantel.

  Bayen above, what did I do this time?

  But instead of snatching out my soul, Sikhek paced toward me. He had hold of a satchel. Heh. He had work for me to do. A bottle and a rope were better than anything the Ministry wished of me.

  He spoke words at me, but they made no sense. I had been made Prince Barok’s alsman. He had been banished beyond the borders of the Capital Territory, and I would be going with him. My dulled mind woke, and I chuckled. The dream of becoming an alsman had been beyond me for decades, lost to years of war and the sultry abyss of wine.

  “In this, you are Vall’s eyes. Your Hemari oath is no longer sufficient. As alsman, you will carry the Exaltier’s voice and authority over his son Barok and are to report to Vall each season the condition of his education, finances, and person. Do you swear yourself a bondsman to Lord Vall Yentif and to this task?”

  Sikhek leaned in, and I learned a new measure of the Hessiers’ terrible power. His black grip crippled and compelled me, its weight the press of a bull. I sank to my knees. Fetid beast. I would rather have died than satisfy him—but to be an alsman.

  I gave him what he wanted, but the words were my own. “To Vall, I pledge my life, my blood, my soul.”

  Sikhek took a step back. His invisible press weakened, and I stood up through it. I felt my hands and arms. They were heavy and weak, but they were my own. One punch. I could do it, straight into his throat. Instead, I straightened my uniform, wiped my mouth, and snatched the satchel out of his hands. He flinched back, and I saluted him. He narrowed his eyes upon me but eventually returned the salute.

  Two more Hessier appeared, and my knees all but buckled from the added closeness. They dragged a large unconscious man between them. Undoubtedly the prince. They tossed my new charge into the carriage.

  Sikhek said more words about destinations, duties, and documents. Enough of it stuck for me to know how far from favor Barok had fallen. His life would be forfeit if he ever set foot in the Kaaryon again, and we were traveling so far into the provinces, I doubted they had roads, so I let the rest of it fall out of my ears until he put his horrible eyes back upon me.

  “Lord Vall’s love for his veterans has preserved you for the last time. Fail to keep your oath, and nothing will keep you safe from me.”

  I tried to find my fists a
gain or even words, but his black magic filled my lungs and clouded my eyes. When the feeling passed, I was left looking at the prince’s luggage. I decided I would remain in that spot until someone came and stuck a spear in me, but no Bessradi ending was ever so merciful. After a time, I yelled at the driver to help. He took his time.

  The latches upon the weariest of the battered trunks were broken. I lifted the lid and was surprised to find a jumbled mass of winter clothing. Barok was being hustled out of the Kaaryon in a hurry.

  There was a chill in the air, so I lifted a cloak from the top of the pile and blinked at the mystery of what I had uncovered. There, in the trunk, slumbering like a field mouse nested in hay, was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

  She came awake with a start, pulled out a stout baton, and pointed the tiny weapon at me. The green of her wild eyes was as striking as the black lengths of her silky hair. Her skin and lips were like painted porcelain. I would’ve guessed her to be one of Lord Vall’s wives if he did not guard them so well. I stumbled back a pace and almost fell over my heels.

  The carriage squeaked as the driver climbed out of his box. He would see her soon.

  The princes, priests, and Hessier could all rot, but the girl was none of those. I snatched the baton from her hand. She shrank back into the box. I ground my teeth together, closed the lid, and stomped away.

  I was either mad or still very drunk. What was I to do with a stowaway, cloak, and baton?

  The driver took hold of his end of the first trunk and motioned me to help. I stepped toward the coach instead, found the prince inside, and offered him the cloak and baton. He mumbled something, and I worried that he would ask me to find his mother. I tossed the cloak and baton inside, closed the door, and turned before the driver could discover the girl.

  We hefted the trunks up onto the top of the coach, and the impatient driver started us down the dank tunnel the moment I climbed into my seat on the back of the coach. My hands ached from the iron handles and a pain bit the back of my eyes all the way down to the river. The squawk of the gulls that infested the city’s bridges overtook the noise of the crowd, and I did not think my headache could get any worse until a pair of long war galleys raced beneath the bridge with drums pounding. I counted myself lucky at least, that I was not chained to an oar in the belly of a ship.

  Darmia entered my mind once, but the pleasant thoughts crumbled. She wouldn’t miss me, and I was bound for the end of the earth. What a cruel trick that I had yet to go on living. I cursed the world. All I wanted was a bottle of wine.

  I contemplated a jump over the side of the bridge, but by the time I was motivated enough to move, the river was behind us. I was left to look at the tall statues of Vall guarding the bridge and the crowds that gathered along the river for the parade. I closed my eyes instead and hoped for sleep.

  “Where are we going?” Prince Barok demanded.

  I flipped open the case Sikhek had given me and scanned a likely sheet. I laughed out loud when I read how a prince was punished. “Our destination is Urnedi Manor in Enhedu. Lord Vall has named you arilas of the province and deeded you all its lands. Congratulations.”

  “Take me back to the palace.”

  I was in no mood to argue. “Lord Prince, Hessier follow us. I do not think we should turn.”

  He said nothing else, and perhaps it had not been such a lie. We would not be left to wander.

  Voices began to ring out from the cupola-topped church towers scattered across the city, and I cursed. The driver pulled the carriage to a halt while the city paused to join the priests in the first of its twice daily chants of Bayen’s Creed. The driver went through all the motions, too. He got down from the coach and stood tall with his hands folded beneath his chin and said the creed all four times, turning with each to one of the ordinal points. Those in the street around us were obliged to follow his orthodox example. I couldn’t be bothered. I mumbled along, facing southwest as was most respectful and tried to fall asleep. I heard nothing from inside the coach.

  The driver surprised me by adding an after prayer that I had not heard since I’d commanded men that worried each day would be their last.

  “O purest Prophet Khrim Zovi, you once said, ‘I wish to bathe with flame all those places where Bayen is outraged. I wish all sinners to join the penitent before their time of judgment.’ Therefore, O most triumphant Prophet, I, a wretched sinner of weak faith, do now beg you to obtain for me from the sacred flame this request: please see me safe along the long road into the land of the wicked and lawless and allow the penitent man to return untainted. His grace be upon you, dear prophet.”

  Some in the crowd repeated his final benediction. Others shook their heads.

  A decade earlier, I would have told him that he’d quoted the wrong prophet. I looked up at the nearest tithe tower. The chanters had already withdrawn. I shook my head. There had been a time when priests were a common sight and their sermons drew huge crowds, but those days were long gone. I tried to remember the last time I’d recited Bayen’s Creed willingly, but remembered instead the day I’d first heard it and witnessed the competitors of a church winery arrested and burned alive.

  I scratched and growled. I was sober, too sober.

  I spotted a boy nearby and thought to offer him a few coins to fetch me a bottle, but the driver got us moving again. Once free of the crowds, we passed through high walls, and turned due north on a wide, flat road.

  I watched Bessradi grow small behind us, and tried to find some sleep. But as our pace increased, so did the bump and jostle of the old carriage. Sleep proved impossible.

  I asked the driver if he had any wine. His reply was to toss a heavy skin over the trunks. I caught it with glee, unstopped it, and squeezed it into my mouth. Water. I spit out the stale mouthful and almost pitched the skin into the ditch. I huffed out my frustration and cast an evil eye at the back of the driver’s head. My own pounded again from my anger. I scratched at my eyes and temple and set the skin aside.

  The sun made a break for the horizon, and we arrived at a large estate as the last of its light disappeared. The large square of its high hedges filled the corner of a well-traveled intersection of the field-covered plains. The driver gave the place a name and remarked about a messenger who rode ahead of us, but I stopped listening. There would be wine once we were inside.

  A pair of valets directed the carriage around to the side of the dark manor, and my hopes faded when they delivered us to an unlit guesthouse. A single servant stood by the door. We were unwelcome guests. There would be no wine.

  The servant was slow to open the coach door, and Barok knocked him down for it. The driver and servant followed him into the guesthouse while a groom unhitched the horses and led them toward a stable. Then I heard a slight noise, and it took me a long moment to remember the terrified stowaway.

  “What is your name?”

  She did not respond, but I out-waited her. I had nowhere to go. “Dia.”

  “Well, Dia, I figure you have only a short time before one of the manor’s servants comes out to search the trunks for fresh clothes. Are you thirsty?”

  “Yes.”

  I rose and took a slow look around. There was no one about except for the single groom who rolled a large bale into the stable. After he disappeared, I opened the trunk and dropped the leather bag inside.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “You will be missed at the palace?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does the prince have a plan beyond hiding you in there?”

  I had to wait for her again. “No.”

  “Do you have any coin?”

  “No.”

  She wouldn’t last through the morning. She must be a girl who was in his service, likely his lover, but was pledged to someone else. They had secreted her out of the palace, despite the long odds that she could escape. I found it all rather romantic.

  Her situation brought back old memories of my own desperate times—the early
years of my service and the struggle to survive and secure Vall’s throne. Dark, terrible days they were, but I had never been more alive, challenged, or rewarded. I felt the old tingle move through me. My blood and thoughts coursed, quick and clean and I considered her plight as deeply as my dull mind was able.

  I retrieved my coin purse from the bundle that had traveled with me. I had only three half-pieces and a few pennies left, but they would have to be enough. I stuffed the purse through a crack in the corner of the trunk.

  “Listen to me carefully, Dia. When soldiers come to collect you, Barok won’t be able to stop them. You must make the rest of the trip north on your own. Our destination’s a place called Urnedi Manor in the province of Enhedu. I know little about the province, except that it’s a peninsula eleven days due north of here by carriage and that there’s a single road west of a town called Almidi that will take you across the mountains. When I tell you to, open the trunk, climb down, and run for the hedge row. Find a way through and keep moving. Your name’s Evela Kalot. You have signed on as a serving girl at a tavern in Bessradi called the Creedal. A man named Haton owns it. Your sister works there. Her name is Darmia. Do you know the place I speak of?”

  She paused. “Only just. Near the palace, but—”

  “Good. Be quiet now and listen carefully. Any soldier from the capital will know of the Creedal. Anyone who’s ever been there will also know Darmia. If anyone asks, that’s where you’re heading. When they tell you that you’re going the wrong way, thank them and turn around. That’s how you get away from anyone who questions you. Your excuse is always that you’re lost. Stay off the roads during the day if you can, and only stop at an inn if you absolutely need to.”

  I paused. My speech had been too long. She would not be able to remember it all.

  “Are you capable of this?”

  “I am headed to Urnedi in Enhedu via Almidi, with a cover story that I am Darmia’s sister, Evela, headed to work for Haton at the Creedal. What does Darmia look like?”