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Sevenfold Sword: Champion
Sevenfold Sword: Champion
Sevenfold Sword: Champion
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Sevenfold Sword: Champion

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Ridmark Arban is the Shield Knight, the defender of the realm of Andomhaim.

The realm is at peace after a long and terrible war, but dark powers threaten other lands.

And when a mad elven wizard comes to the High King's court, Ridmark finds himself fighting not only for his own life, but for the lives of his family.

For the quest of the Seven Swords has begun...

LanguageEnglish
Release dateJun 29, 2017
ISBN9781370726295
Sevenfold Sword: Champion
Author

Jonathan Moeller

Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair of a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.He has written the "Demonsouled" trilogy of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write the "Ghosts" sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the "$0.99 Beginner's Guide" series of computer books, and numerous other works.Visit his website at:http://www.jonathanmoeller.comVisit his technology blog at:http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/screed

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    Sevenfold Sword - Jonathan Moeller

    SEVENFOLD SWORD: CHAMPION

    Jonathan Moeller

    ***

    Description

    Ridmark Arban is the Shield Knight, the defender of the realm of Andomhaim.

    The realm is at peace after a long and terrible war, but dark powers threaten other lands.

    And when a mad elven wizard comes to the High King's court, Ridmark finds himself fighting not only for his own life, but for the lives of his family.

    For the quest of the Seven Swords has begun...

    ***

    Sevenfold Sword: Champion

    Copyright 2017 by Jonathan Moeller.

    Smashwords Edition.

    Cover design by Clarissa Yeo.

    Ebook edition published July 2017.

    All Rights Reserved.

    This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

    ***

    A brief author’s note

    At the end of this book, you will find a Glossary of Characters and a Glossary of Locations listing all the major characters and locations in this book.

    A map of the realm of Andomhaim is available on the author’s website at this link (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4487).

    ***

    Chapter 1: The Keeper of Andomhaim

    The day the quest of the Seven Swords began, the day in the Year of Our Lord 1488 when the cloaked stranger came to the High King’s court, Ridmark Arban showed his youngest son how to hold a sword.

    It surprised him how much he enjoyed spending time with his sons. Ridmark had not been close with his own father. Leogrance Arban had been a great and noble lord of Andomhaim, a man who had done his duty and done it well, but he had spared little time for his youngest son. As Ridmark grew older and experienced losses and griefs of his own, he came to understand that Leogrance had thrown himself into his duties after Ridmark’s mother had died. By then Ridmark had been a page at Dux Gareth Licinius’s court, and Dux Gareth had raised him more than Dux Leogrance.

    Still, Ridmark begrudged his father nothing. In the end, he supposed a father’s duty was to train his sons to look after themselves after he had died. Leogrance Arban was eight years in his grave, slain fighting the Frostborn at Dun Calpurnia, but the skills Ridmark had learned after Leogrance had sent him to Dux Gareth’s court had served him well.

    But in the years since, Ridmark had learned that no matter what a father did, no matter how he trained his children…there were some things that no amount of love and teaching could conquer.

    The black grief fluttered at the edges of his mind.

    Once, as a younger man, he would have tried to push it aside, or deny it, or let it drive him into a rage. Instead, Ridmark accepted it, and let it remind him of those who were still with him.

    Father? said Joachim Arban.

    Ridmark blinked and looked at his youngest son. What did I tell you the last time?

    He stood with his sons on the western bank of the River Moradel, the walls and towers of the High King’s city of Tarlion rising on the far side of the river. To the south stretched the endless expanse of the southern sea, which no man had ever crossed. To the east stood the domus where Ridmark and his family and their servants lived, a villa built in the style of the Romans of old. A salt-scented breeze came off the sea, the blue sky dotted with white clouds overhead.

    You said, said Joachim, his face scowling with concentration as only a child of three could scowl, that I should hold the hilt with both hands.

    Ridmark nodded. That’s right. His youngest son looked more like his wife. Both Ridmark and Calliande had blue eyes, but Joachim had Calliande’s eyes and blond hair. Of the two boys, Joachim was by far the more emotional, capable of giddy joys and ferocious tantrums. When Gareth had been three, the only time he had ever cried had been when he had accidentally scraped or hurt himself.

    Like this? said Joachim, shifting his grip on the wooden practice sword.

    No, said Gareth Arban before Ridmark could speak. Your thumbs are wrong.

    Ridmark looked at his oldest son. Gareth was now eight years old, and while Joachim looked like Calliande, Gareth looked more like Ridmark, with black hair and blue eyes. Gareth wasn’t smiling, but then he usually didn’t. Calliande had said that Gareth had inherited Ridmark’s sober nature, and that seemed true enough.

    Joachim’s face screwed up as if he couldn’t decide if he wanted to cry or not. What’s wrong with my thumbs?

    Nothing, said Gareth. They’re just in the wrong place. He reached over and adjusted Joachim’s grip. There, like that.

    Joachim looked up. Is that right, Father?

    It is, said Ridmark.

    Father showed me how to do that when I was your age, said Gareth with all the wisdom of his eight years.

    I did, said Ridmark. Now. Hit me with the sword.

    Joachim lifted his wooden blade and glanced at Gareth, and Gareth took a prudent step back.

    No, don’t hit your brother, said Ridmark, for what felt like the billionth time. The boys were as likely to start fighting as they were to start talking. Gareth had explained to Ridmark that Joachim needed punching to instruct him, while Joachim sometimes hit Gareth just for the fun of it.

    Ridmark had rejected both arguments, much to their dismay

    It is unknightly to attack an unarmed opponent, said Gareth.

    I’m not a knight yet, said Joachim. Neither are you.

    Soon I’ll be old enough to be a page in a noble court, said Gareth. So, I will know more about being a knight than you will.

    You still haven’t hit me, said Ridmark.

    Joachim blinked, took a deep breath, drew back the wooden sword, and swung it with all his strength. He spun on his right leg, overbalanced, and landed with a thump, blinking in surprise.

    I don’t think you were supposed to fall over, said Gareth. Another boy would have flung it as an insult or a joke. Gareth made it as a simple statement of fact.

    You swung too hard, said Ridmark. It’s important to hit hard, but it’s also important not to leave yourself open. Joachim staggered back to his feet. Watch. Ridmark took a swing with his own practice sword, going through the movements with exaggerated slowness. Did you see?

    Could you do it again? said Joachim, his eyes wide.

    Ridmark repeated the attack, still moving with exaggerated slowness.

    Joachim took a deep breath, adjusted his grip on the little wooden sword, and swung again. He overbalanced once more, but only a little, and this time he kept his feet.

    That was better, said Gareth.

    It was, said Ridmark. Now, try to hit me. Joachim started to wind up for a massive swing. No, not like that. You’ll fall over again.

    It’s bad to fall over in a sword duel, isn’t it? said Joachim.

    Well, said Ridmark. Yes.

    Joachim swung at him, and this time the boy kept his movements controlled. Ridmark lowered his practice sword and deflected the attack. The swords came together with a sharp crack, and Joachim flinched, blinked a few times, and grinned. He let out a shrill imitation of a knight’s battle cry and started hammering at Ridmark’s sword repeatedly.

    Despite his worries about the present and the future, the sight of a small child attacking him with a wooden sword was so absurd that Ridmark burst out laughing. Joachim froze in astonishment and then started laughing at well. He looked a lot like Calliande then. She reacted the same way on the rare occasions when Ridmark laughed.

    Not that there had been many opportunities of late.

    That, said Gareth, attempting a stern glare, is not the proper way to use a sword, Joachim.

    No, it isn’t, said Joachim. But it’s loud!

    He whacked Ridmark’s sword once more with a resounding crack, and all three of them laughed.

    No one is louder than you, Joachim, said Gareth.

    When I am a knight, said Joachim, I shall be known as Sir Joachim the Loud.

    Most likely, said Ridmark. He glanced at the towers of Tarlion across the river to the east. And I think that’s all the time we have for sword lessons today. Both Gareth and Joachim groaned. Gareth, you need to go to your lesson with Brother Octavius. And I need to take the ferry to Tarlion to meet the new Dux of Calvus.

    Can we come with you? said Joachim.

    Not today, said Ridmark. The new Dux of Calvus would be offering homage and swearing fealty to the High King, and it would be a long affair with oaths in formal Latin, followed by a feast. Joachim would be bored out of his skull before the new Dux got halfway through the first of the formal oaths. But maybe if you ask nicely, Dieter will let you help in his workshop today.

    Joachim brightened. I like helping to make the fences.

    Knights don’t make fences, said Gareth.

    I shall, announced Joachim. I shall be Sir Joachim the Loud and the Maker of Fences. He fell silent, frowning as a thought seemed to occur to him.

    What is it? said Ridmark.

    Joachim looked up at him. Do you think we will see Mother today?

    Probably not, thought Ridmark.

    Maybe, he said aloud. If she is feeling better.

    But she’s not sick, said Joachim. At least not anymore. He hesitated. Do…do you think she’s mad with me, Father? Did I do something wrong?

    No, said Ridmark, gesturing towards the domus. Both boys followed him as they climbed the slope from the river towards the house, the thick grasses rustling around them. He didn’t want to discuss this, but he knew how that kind of fear could fester in a young mind. She’s not sick, and she’s not angry with you. She…is in mourning.

    Because of Joanna, said Joachim.

    Yes, said Ridmark. The grief fluttered at the back of his mind. That was very hard for your mother. One of the hardest things she’s had to face, and she has done many difficult things. She just needs time.

    But I don’t understand, said Joachim. She was just a baby. Mother only knew her for three days.

    Ridmark was at a loss how to answer that. He supposed it all seemed unreal to Joachim. When Joanna had been born, neither Gareth nor Joachim had seen the small, struggling girl. She had barely lived three days, and Calliande had not slept for a single one of those three days as she tried healing spell after healing spell.

    Calliande had not slept much in the six months after, either.

    Ridmark wondered if Joachim resented that. He knew that older children often resented the younger ones. But Ridmark had been the youngest, and Calliande had been an only child. Perhaps neither of them understood.

    You used to be a baby, didn’t you? said Gareth in a quiet voice.

    Joachim’s eyes went wide at that. Oh. I think I understand.

    Then you understand, said Ridmark, that we must be kind to your mother.

    And we must pray for her, said Gareth.

    Yes, said Ridmark.

    They walked in silence for a while as they drew nearer to the house. Its walls had been built of white stone, its roof covered in tiles of fired clay. Ridmark and Calliande had built the house on the site of the long-abandoned fishing village where she had grown up all those centuries ago. Though, to be totally accurate, they had built the domus several hundred yards west of where the fishing village had once been, given how the River Moradel tended to flood in the spring.

    The house was stirring as they walked to the courtyard gate. Servants, both human and halfling, went about their tasks. Soon after the defeat of the Frostborn, Ridmark had hired a halfling woman named Dagma to look after the Tower of the Keeper in Tarlion, and in the past eight years, Dagma had taken over as the seneschal of both the Tower and the domus. Ridmark made a mental note to speak with her before he left for Tarlion. It was good of her husband Dieter to let Joachim hang about in his workshop, but he didn’t want Joachim causing problems with the servants. In another few years, Joachim would start taking lessons with Brother Octavius, but…

    Gareth, you have to keep learning to speak the orcs’ language, said Joachim. Evidently, he didn’t want to talk about his mother any further.

    Gareth sighed. I wish knights didn’t need to learn to speak orcish.

    It will serve you well, said Ridmark. Almost everyone outside of the realm of Andomhaim speaks orcish, and not just the orcs. Of course, Kothluuskan orcish, Qazaluuskan orcish, Anathgrimm orcish, and the orcish tongues of the three baptized kingdoms all tended to have different slang and grammar, but there was no reason to trouble Gareth’s head with that quite yet.

    I don’t have to learn orcish, announced Joachim with pride.

    Gareth scoffed. That’s because you’re too little.

    I’m not little, I’m three!

    Ridmark stepped into the courtyard. It was a wide, clear space, with a narrow pool running down the center, pillars lining the walls. When guests came, Ridmark entertained them here, assuming the weather cooperated, and…

    He stopped in surprise, as did Gareth and Joachim.

    Mama! shouted Joachim, and he shot across the courtyard like a crossbow bolt.

    Calliande stepped closer to them.

    She did not look at all well.

    In many ways, she looked no different than she had ten years ago when Ridmark had first met her on the slopes of Black Mountain. She had the same blue eyes, the same long blonde hair, the same sort of windswept beauty to her face. But that face was much thinner than he remembered, the lines sharper, with dark circles under her eyes. She had lost a great deal of weight in the last six months, enough to alarm Ridmark, and the dress hung much more loosely from her than it had a year ago.

    Her eyes were still bloodshot. Likely she had been crying again this morning.

    Mama! said Joachim, and he slammed into her legs, wrapping his arms around her.

    Joachim, said Calliande. She propped the worn staff of the Keeper against one of the pillars and picked up Joachim. How are you this morning?

    Good, said Joachim as Ridmark and Gareth drew nearer. I learned how to hold a sword, and I’m going to be Sir Joachim the Loud. I’m also going to build fences and not learn to speak orcish.

    Calliande tried to smile at him. Well, it sounds like you’ve had a very busy day.

    I did! said Joachim.

    Calliande squatted to look Gareth in the eye, still holding Joachim. And how are you, Gareth?

    I am well, Mother, said Gareth. I hope you are well.

    She set Joachim down, kissed Gareth on the top of the head, and straightened up. Why don’t the two of you go have breakfast in the kitchen? I want to talk to your father.

    Yes, Mother, said Gareth. Come on, Joachim. The bread should still be hot.

    The two boys ran from the courtyard. Ridmark tried to remember what it was like to have the energy to run everywhere and failed.

    Instead, he met Calliande’s eye.

    She tried to smile. Her eyes were still red and raw from weeping. But she was on her feet and out of bed, and she had bathed and dressed. There had been too many days of late when she hadn’t been able to get out of bed.

    They stood in silence for a moment.

    At last Ridmark took her hand. Her fingers felt thin and cold. How are you?

    Ridmark, said Calliande. I’m… She took a shuddering breath, and she looked away.

    He gripped her hand tighter, and she squeezed back. They had faced all manner of dangers together, but this had broken her in a way that none of them ever had. Ridmark thought he had known all there was to know about grief.

    Joanna’s death had taught him otherwise.

    It had hit him very hard.

    It had hit Calliande far harder.

    He tried to take comfort in the fact that Joanna had been baptized before her death, that her soul now resided with the Dominus Christus in paradise. Her brief life had been full of pain, but she would never have to know the many, many other pains of mortal life.

    It was a comforting thought, but it did little for his own grief. But some sorrows simply had to be borne.

    Today’s the day the new Dux of Calvus comes to give homage to Arandar, isn’t it? said Calliande.

    It is, said Ridmark. Antenora and Master Vesilius should be there if you don’t feel like coming.

    I don’t, said Calliande. But I need to…I don’t know, Ridmark. I need to just…not be at our house for a day or two. I haven’t been to Tarlion since the pregnancy took a turn for the worst. She let out a long sigh, and an echo of her old fire went over her face. And I’m still the Keeper of Andomhaim. Antenora has been carrying too much of my work lately.

    An idea came to Ridmark. Why don’t we take the boys with us?

    Calliande blinked. To a ceremony at the court? They’ll be bored out of their minds.

    All four of us haven’t gone anywhere together for some time, said Ridmark. It will be good for them. If we’re both there, they won’t dare misbehave. And, God willing, they’ll both be knights someday. They’ll have to learn how to stand solemnly and listen to formal speeches sooner or later.

    Calliande looked at him, and Ridmark feared that she would give up, that she would go back to her bed and weep some more.

    Then she rallied, and he saw a flicker of her old self once more, the woman who had gone with him to Cathair Solas and saved him from the fury of the Dragon Knight’s sword.

    You’re right, said Calliande. You usually are. I’ll call my maid and have her help me dress the boys.

    Ridmark nodded, careful not to let his relief show. She had not left the domus since Joanna had died.

    It was a start.

    ###

    An hour later, Ridmark found himself standing on a raft as the ferrymen poled the craft towards the docks north of the walls of Tarlion.

    He could have worn a formal tunic and mantle and cloak, but he was the Shield Knight of Andomhaim, and so he had opted for armor instead. Specifically, he wore the blue dark elven armor he had taken from the armories of Urd Morlemoch all those years ago, the overlapping plates of blue steel protecting his torso and upper legs. Beneath the armor, he wore a gambeson, tunic, trousers, and heavy boots, and the gray cloak the last archmage of the high elves had given him hung from his shoulders. A belt encircled his waist, heavy with the weight of sword and dagger.

    Oathshield rested in its scabbard upon his left hip.

    There was no other sword like it in Andomhaim, and likely outside of the realm as well.

    The sword was an odd shade of deep blue, with a soulstone worked into the tang of the blade. Oathshield was a soulblade, and it had all the powers of one of those mighty weapons. It could wound and slay creatures of dark magic immune to weapons of normal steel and wood. It could tear through magical wards to slay evil wizards and wielders of dark magic. The sword gave its bearer enhanced strength, speed, accelerated healing, and protection from magic, and it could use limited healing magic on others.

    These were normal powers for a soulblade, and with those powers, the Knights of the Order of the Soulblade had defended Andomhaim for nearly five centuries. Without the Swordbearers, Andomhaim would have fallen long ago, first to the wrath of the urdmordar, and then to the invasion of the Frostborn.

    But Oathshield was unique.

    Most soulblades had only one soulstone. Oathshield had a second worked into the pommel of the blade, and from that second soulstone came the unique power of the sword, the power of the Shield Knight.

    It was a terrible power with a high cost, and Ridmark had only been forced to use it twice since Ardrhythain had given him the sword. But he felt that power waiting through his link to Oathshield, felt the sword’s stern wrath.

    It was sleeping now, but should he need it, Oathshield’s power would explode in fury.

    He looked at the others. Calliande stood near the edge of the raft, her eyes distant, both hands grasping the staff of the Keeper, her green skirt rippling against her legs in the breeze. A few strands of blond hair had broken free of the bronze diadem of the Keeper and danced around her face. She had donned the mien of the Keeper of Andomhaim, calm and aloof and serene, but Ridmark knew his wife well enough to see how sad she looked.

    Ridmark wished he could do more for her. But as he knew all too well, grief had its own logic.

    Joachim stood near his mother. He was not fond of water travel, but he was putting on a brave face, partly for Calliande, and partly not to show weakness in front of Gareth. Joachim’s nurse, an old widow named Tindra, stood behind him. She did a good job with the boy, alternating between sternness and kindness as necessary.

    Gareth stood with Brother Octavius. Ridmark had saved the old friar’s life during the last Mhorite raid into Durandis, and the old man had become Gareth’s tutor. Never one to miss a lesson, he was asking Gareth the names of the chief buildings of Tarlion. Gareth pointed them out one by one – the Citadel, the Great Cathedral, the Castra of the Swordbearers, the Tower of the Magistri, the Tower of the Keeper – and gave Octavius a brief description of each.

    Good, young Gareth, good, said the old friar. His tanned head looked like a brown egg, with a few wisps of gray hair left. Though you likely already know quite a lot about the Tower of the Keeper.

    We do stay there when Mother or Father have business in the city, said Gareth. Or when Lady Antenora and Sir Gavin visit. He considered. I can always beat their son Philip at swords.

    That’s because you’re a year older than he is, Joachim pointed out.

    Gareth was unpersuaded. It still counts.

    At last, the ferry docked below the walls of Tarlion, and Ridmark led the horses off the raft. Mistress Tindra and Brother Octavius each took their own horse. Gareth was just old enough to ride a pony of his own. A knight had to know how to ride, after all, and Ridmark had found him an older pony of placid temperament that made a good first mount. He expected Joachim to ride with Tindra, but instead, Calliande mounted her horse, and Tindra passed him up to her.

    That, too, was a good sign.

    Joachim settled with satisfaction in front of his mother, her arm around his waist. Gareth looked torn between wanting to ride with Calliande and pleasure at having his own pony, but he decided to remain with his own pony.

    Did you check the stirrups? said Ridmark.

    Yes, Father, said Gareth.

    The bit is in properly?

    Gareth nodded. Yes, Father.

    Remember to steer with the reins, said Ridmark. Don’t pull too hard, or you’ll hurt the pony, and she’ll turn sharply enough that you might lose your seat. And gentle taps with your heels. We’re riding to the Citadel, not galloping to it.

    Gareth nodded again, taking a deep breath as he adjusted the reins in his hands.

    I want a horse, announced Joachim.

    When you are old enough, young master, said Tindra. Calliande gave Joachim a faint smile, and then her distant look returned as she gazed at the northern gate of Tarlion. Perhaps her thoughts were on Joanna again. Or maybe her thoughts had gone back to the terrible battles that had been fought below Tarlion’s walls.

    A lot of people had died here.

    Ridmark shook off the dark thoughts.

    Everyone ready? said Ridmark.

    They were, and Ridmark led the way into Tarlion.

    After eight years, there were no traces left of Tarrabus Carhaine’s siege walls, no hint that the Frostborn had been defeated here. Looking at the peaceful fields and meadows outside the city, it was hard to believe that hundreds of thousands of men and orcs and dwarves and other kindreds had struggled and died here. Men-at-arms in blue surcoats adorned with the red dragon of the Pendragons guarded the northern gate, and they let the Keeper of Andomhaim and the Shield Knight pass without challenge.

    Beyond lay the Forum of the North, dotted with statues of long-dead knights and lords and Magistri, including a new statue commemorating all those who had died in the fighting after Imaria Shadowbearer had broken the gate. Ridmark rode through the Forum of the North and onto the Via Borealis, houses of stone lining the street. There was a good deal of traffic, with merchant wagons heading to the north and the markets in the new city Queen Mara and Prince Jager were building, messengers going about their business, and the occasional enterprising peddler with a cart selling sausages or meat rolls. Many people cheered as Calliande rode past, and she answered with a gracious nod. Ridmark’s wife was beloved in Tarlion. She had healed the wounds of countless soldiers after the battle with the Frostborn, and in the eight years since she had healed many others who had come to her for help. One hundred thousand people lived in the city, and Ridmark supposed that nearly all of them knew someone whom Calliande had helped.

    They rode through the Forum of the Crown, the largest market in Tarlion, and threaded their way through the stalls and the crowds of shoppers, humans and orcs and halflings and even a few dwarven merchants from Khald Tormen. From there they took the ramp that climbed the Citadel’s crag and entered the fortress’s vast courtyard. The Tower of the Moon rose high overhead, a white spike against the blue sky, and before them stood the basilica that served as the High King’s audience hall.

    Already a crowd of nobles filled the courtyard. Nearly all the nobles of Calvus had been killed or executed during the civil war, and over the last eight years, Arandar had gradually appointed new ones, most of them minor knights and men-at-arms who had distinguished themselves fighting the Frostborn. He had appointed a new Dux for Calvus soon after the defeat of the Frostborn, but the unfortunate man had gotten himself killed exploring the ancient dark elven ruins that sprawled beneath Castra Andrius.

    After that, the High King had appointed Sir Cortin Lamorus as the new Dux of Calvus, much to old Corbanic Lamorus’s pleasure. Ridmark thought it a good choice. Sir Cortin had served as his father’s right hand during the siege of Tarlion, and he had conducted himself well during the campaigns against the Mhorites and the Qazaluuskan orcs since.

    Ridmark reined up and dropped from his saddle, and a small army of pages in Pendragon tabards came to take their horses. Perhaps before the end of the year, Gareth would be serving as a page in the royal court, learning the skills of a knight from Arandar’s master-at-arms. Ridmark had originally thought to send Gareth to his brother Tormark’s court at Castra Arban, but it might be better for Calliande if the boy remained close…

    Lord Ridmark!

    Ridmark turned as a young man in his early twenties approached. Crown Prince Accolon Pendragon looked like his father, with the same fierce eyes, crooked beak of a nose, and thick black hair. Accolon had grown since Ridmark had first rescued him from Tarrabus Carhaine’s prison all those years ago. Serving as first Ridmark’s squire and then Prince Consort Jager’s had seasoned him a great deal, to say nothing of the campaigns against the Mhorites and the dvargir since.

    Ridmark bowed, and Tindra and Brother Octavius did so as well. Lord Prince. It is good to see you.

    And you, said Accolon with a smile. I’m glad Father chose Sir Cortin for the Duxarchate. The place needs a steady hand, and…

    He blinked in surprise as Calliande dismounted. Calliande had not been to Tarlion since the difficulties in her pregnancy, and she had lost enough weight during the illnesses after Joanna’s death that the change in her appearance would have been stark to anyone who had not seen her in six months.

    My lady Keeper, said Accolon, recovering his poise. It is good to see you again. It has been too long.

    Her eyes were remote as she looked at him, but Calliande bowed and offered a smile. Lord Prince. Likewise. Perhaps I should have returned sooner.

    Are you well, my lady? said Accolon.

    Calliande shrugged. I am as well as I have any right to be.

    Of course, said Accolon. Would you come with me? I think we’ll begin as soon as all the nobles enter the hall. He offered an apologetic smile. Best to get these things over with as soon as possible, I fear. That many men and women gathered together without food and drink will become irritable in short order.

    Especially without the drink, said Ridmark.

    They followed the Crown Prince to the doors of the basilica. Ridmark offered Calliande his arm, and she smiled and threaded her arm through his, though she did not look at him or anyone else after she did.

    Accolon led them into the great hall of the High King’s Citadel. It was as large and wide as the Great Cathedral of Tarlion, and the stained-glass windows showed scenes from Andomhaim’s history, High Kings past triumphing over the urdmordar and dark elven princes and the pagan orcs. After Arandar died, perhaps Accolon would commission a new window showing his father leading the loyalist host to victory against Tarrabus and the Enlightened.

    As Keeper of Andomhaim, Calliande would stand near the High King’s dais, and Ridmark and the others walked there as the nobles filed into the hall. Brother Octavius seized

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