The Plight of the Isle, page 19
The sound of boots approaching prompted them both to turn. Aela strained to see who it was, finally spotting Bardia and the guards as their silhouettes took form in the torchlight. Bardia’s cheeks were flushed, and he looked weary. With hardly a glance, he breezed past the both of them and went to untie his horse. Aela watched Bardia, then glanced at Lord Wilmere, who seemed just as lost.
“Alright, my king?” Lord Wilmere finally asked, taking a careful step down from the platform.
Bardia looked up at him, his gaze distant, but not particularly hostile.
“Aye, all is well,” he said, yanking the leather strap tight under his gelding’s belly. “I’ve cut taxes down in this region.”
Aela looked at Lord Wilmere, reading his response to it. He didn’t appear particularly bothered. He joined his hands behind his back again. “Very well, lord king. By how much?”
“A third of what they pay now.”
Lord Wilmere stiffened at that. “That is generous, lord. I do wonder how the realm will afford it.”
“Simple,” Bardia said. “Cuts to the lords’ allowances.” Bardia threw himself up on his horse.
Lord Wilmere descended to stand on the ground beside him. “That will be a significant cut. Are you certain you do not wish to consider this longer, my lord?”
“My reluctance only brings starving common folk.” Bardia looked down at Lord Wilmere, his thinning patience evident on his face. “Will you mount, that we may be off, my good lord? Much later and the inns won’t have us.”
Lord Wilmere yielded and mounted his own horse. Aela followed suit and kept her horse close behind the others as they made their way to the inn between Hawke and Grunid’s city. They arrived before twilight, and the innkeeper coughed up a few of that day’s loaves to feed them. Aela controlled herself, despite her hunger, and picked daintily at one of them, sitting beside Bardia at the long table as the men conversed. The only other figures in the room were shifty. One man sat in the corner, hooded, ever watching. Another kept himself a few tables down, silent as the grave, turning his head at times to listen. Aela forced herself to ignore them, but Bardia seemed most distracted by them as Lord Wilmere engaged in an exchange of quips with the guardsmen.
Before long, Bardia’s fixation with the men in the room was too much for Aela to disregard. She shouldered his anxiety and found herself glancing over her shoulder as often as he did, jumping at every small sound. It was impossible to watch both men at once, and Aela chided herself for her efforts to do so. They were simply strangers, crooked as they seemed, and they likely had no ill intent.
Despite this assurance, Aela still startled violently as the man in the corner rose abruptly from his seat and strode heavily by their table, glancing down at her with pale, hateful eyes. The look on his face sent a shiver up her spine, and she watched him as he crossed the floor and took his leave, slamming his hand into the flimsy wooden door. As soon as he left, the other man joined him, stealing one last glance at their table before following. Aela looked warily over at Bardia, whose eyes were locked on the inn’s entrance.
Lord Wilmere and the guardsmen had long-since noticed the change in atmosphere, and they too had seen the men. Aela felt assured when the guardsmen noticed. They watched the door now as Bardia did, then exchanged glances after a spell of silence.
“Worry not for ‘em,” the innkeeper called from behind the jagged wooden counter, noticing their silence. “Here most nights, they are. Never cause no trouble.” Aela heard the innkeeper spit. “Can I bring m’lords a pint?”
Aela’s body refused to rest that night. She was unused to sleeping anywhere but her own chamber. Her days of wandering around the Yellow Isle and sleeping in unfamiliar places were behind her. This bed was worse than any she’d had. It was straw, covered by a thin layer of roughspun. The small hearth in the corner hardly warmed the room. Despite this, Bardia slept soundly at her side, and she was relieved to see it. He rarely slept soundly. She wondered if it was the weariness of travel that brought him rest or the familiarity of the inn. He would have slept in many beds like this one when he lived in Cael, as a blacksmith and a sellsword. How high he’d risen since those days. Aela wondered if he’d been happier then.
How disheartening it would be if Bardia’s finished aim brought him more strife than his old life ever had. Aela shifted where she lay, and her hand grazed her abdomen. Her heart fluttered with excitement, and she recalled that she still needed to tell Bardia about his child. She could imagine the way his face would shine, how the greyness lingering over him now would dissipate.
But for now, he slept, and she let him sleep.
Chapter 20
Felaern
THERE WAS A DEEP FEELING of dread sitting at the pit of Felaern’s stomach while he trudged the desert trail.
Venali Heiren’s men went with him, two of them holding the ends of ropes binding his hands. He had arrived in Ivaran as an honoured guest, someone the king trusted to heal the queen. He was leaving as a prisoner.
Felaern would not soon forget it—the sleepless nights he’d endured, the desperate attempts to ease the spreading Plight. It was all for naught. When he arrived, the queen was pale and weak, unable to walk for long or keep herself sitting upright. She did not speak his language, only the Idunnic of the Yellow Isle. He could not speak to her, though he tried to. There was a servant with them, a young boy meant to interpret what they said. The queen did not say much. She only asked for water and help moving from place to place. She had little to no appetite, and she never wished to eat. He always insisted on it, hoping it might build up her strength. Even so, it was not enough. She grew frail and tired. Soon, she did not leave her bed.
The hot, dry air could not have helped her condition. Her cough was rough and jagged from the beginning. With time, she coughed up blood, just as the others had. Felaern managed to prolong her life, probably weeks longer than she would have lasted had he not been there. He felt she favoured him. She called him àlia, a word that he learned. It meant something like ‘faerie’ or ‘sylph.’ Felaern had been called a faerie before by Haven, always in teasing. Queen Soliana called him àlia affectionately, raising her hand to his cheek and smiling as he eased the sharp pain in her chest.
By the time she died, Felaern knew her well enough to mourn her. Though she never said much, she said enough. When her body lay upon the great stone table, surrounded by flowers, he was inclined to weep. After three days, her body was sent to Paerna, where her family lived, and laid in a tomb with her forefathers.
Felaern witnessed a change in Venali Heiren. Before, the king had been vain and caustic, but he could still laugh. When the queen died, the coldness of grief took him. He was enshrouded in a dark brooding melancholy that soon birthed anger. Felaern knew that his own fate would not be a pleasant one, for he could not save the queen. Soon, Felaern was sure the king would kill him, despite their relation.
Venali Heiren was the elder brother of Felaern’s mother, yet the Heirens contrasted his own family most starkly. They were tall, pale, and vicious, with biting tempers and sharp humour. Felaern tried to learn their language, but it seemed impossible as words were tossed about quick as lightning. Felaern hadn’t noticed the disparity between himself and Islemen in the mining camp. Only work was required of him there. Here, in a court setting that seemed chaotic and barren compared to his own father’s court, that variance was most noticeable.
King Venali took little interest in Felaern besides his healing ability, rarely bothering to glance at him, let alone speak the language they shared. It would not have to be Astorian. Felaern could converse fluently in the Mainland’s tongue. Felaern did not expect to be received by his mother’s brother with warmth and coddling, but the hostility was jarring. It was as though they had no relation between them at all. Amisra showed him no more affection and regarded him disparagingly as he passed through the halls, ever dubious. Felaern had never met either of them in his lifetime, and it seemed they were holding him personally responsible for their weak alliance with Ailmar each time they looked at him. Perhaps they were searching for their sister in him and failing to find her.
Felaern learned then that the Isle did not owe any allegiance to anyone based on blood alone. That was an idea held by Mainlanders and those in Eladalis. On the Isle, familial bonds were earned, not given. Legitimate children could be discarded as easily as servants, and shared blood did not necessarily mean devotion and loyalty. That too was earned.
When the queen finally died, all warmth and fondness—if indeed there was any to begin with—melted away from Venali Heiren regarding his nephew. Anger was on him in addition to his anguish, and Felaern watched him draw very near to killing his men if they tested his patience. Felaern waited for the king’s wrath to befall him too. Yet, Venali sent him back to Magni Kerr rather than dealing the blow himself. Perhaps he thought it a more suitable punishment—an end of slow suffering under laborious, trying conditions. Then there was the possibility that Venali Heiren did not wish to spill the blood of his sister’s son in his own halls.
These thoughts were not enough to distract the young prince as he wandered the desert.
The sand was not kind to the eyes, particularly when it blew around in gusts of hot wind. Felaern squinted as they walked the path. They had come across very few travellers, some merchants here and there, but no one who questioned their party as they roamed. They would not cross over the borders of any tribes. Felaern forced himself to look up again, wrinkling his nose and ignoring the stinging sensation in his eyes. He kept his gaze forward, narrowing his eyes to focus on what was coming over the horizon. Darkened figures approached. It looked like just one at first, but there were three. Heat waves distorted them with the distance. Throbbing pain drubbed though Felaern’s head as he tried to recognise them. There was no point to it. They were still too far away. He winced and lifted his hand to his temple, startling when one of the guards yanked his hands back down and barked something in Idunnic.
Felaern accepted that these were merely merchants approaching, as they always were.
Felaern could regard them as their appearances grew sharper. They wore hoods and thin scarves over their noses and mouths. The figure in the centre was tall, but slighter than the other two, perhaps Elven. The other two men were burlier, heavier set. The guards stopped to appraise them. They were different from the wandering merchants typically encountered. These men had no wares, and their dress suggested they wished to conceal themselves. One of the guards called out to the travellers in Idunnic. No reply came for some time, until the man at the centre replied in Astorian. Though Felaern understood him, the guards did not. The man tried again in the Mainlander’s tongue.
“Greetings, friends,” he called.
Felaern could see what little of their faces were left unconcealed. The strangers peered at them, and the man in the centre had purple eyes.
“Who are you?” asked one of the guards, his words heavily accented. The guards did not know much of the Mainlander’s tongue, but they knew it better than Astorian.
“Travellers. Though...we seem to have lost our way. Where is it you are going?” asked the man, gesturing broadly, innocently. Felaern noticed the gloves on his hands, heavy leather ones. It was a strange choice to wear gloves in the desert.
The guards tightened their grip on Felaern’s ropes. “Returning a slave.”
The man’s eyes lit up. “A slave? We are seeking Magni Kerr.”
The guard narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What need have you?” he asked.
The stranger pulled his scarf from his nose to reveal an unassuming smile. He took his hood down and Felaern saw that he was Elven. His long snow-blond hair was braided back from his face and his keen eyes danced between the stern looks from the guards.
“Slaves from his mining camp.”
The guard was unconvinced. “Magni Kerr does not give away his slaves.”
“Oh, he will be fairly compensated.” The stranger took something from his pocket and tossed it to the guard.
Felaern looked over to see the guard turning a piece of gold around in his hand.
“From the Silver Mountains,” the stranger explained. “There is much more of it. We need slaves for that gold. I am sure Magni Kerr will want a piece of it...as will King Venali. And, of course, the wealthier the king is, the wealthier you are.” He offered another humble smile. The guards exchanged looks before their faces softened. “Keep that piece,” the stranger offered. “In exchange for showing us the way to the gem master.”
The guards hardly required convincing. If Islemen had one weakness, it was gold. The guards never asked the strangers for their names, and never offered their own. Felaern felt this was how business on the Yellow Isle was typically conducted—nameless, anonymous. It was all very untrustworthy, but those on the Isle could not afford to be naïve.
They had nearly reached the camp. Felaern was not eager to see that camp again. It was where his fate awaited him, whatever Magni decided it would be.
All was as they’d left it when they arrived. The sounds of struggle could be heard rising with the dust in the air, men yelling back and forth to each other over the dunes, metal tools ringing against hard sandstone. The heat was more insufferable in the camp, thick and heavy upon one’s shoulders.
Magni was in his tent, as he usually was, his feet resting lazily atop the desk as he threw chunks of meat to those lions of his. The Ivaranian guards thrust Felaern towards him, eager to have him off their hands. Magni startled and one of his lions snarled. He spat something at the guards in Idunnic, his brows drawing together as he leaned back from Felaern. The gem master’s eyes glittered, and a small smile crept across his face.
“He probably has the Plight,” Magni said in the Mainlander’s tongue. His eyes found the strangers that stood with them, flicking up and down in judgement. “And who are these?”
The Elven man, the apparent leader, stepped forth and bowed his head. “Master Kerr...we come on behalf of King Bardia of Grunid. The Silver Mountains host plenty of gold, and the king wishes to extract it. Though, we have few men with the skill and strength to do this. We are here seeking slaves to bring to the Mainland.”
Magni scoffed. “My slaves are tethered here. They do not wander off with foreigners.”
“You would see a generous cut from their labour.”
Magni smiled, taking nothing that this stranger said seriously. “I have more gold than I can count in a hundred sittings. Caves full of gold. I do not need yours, traveller.”
“Surely you would favour a claim on the Mainland. A piece connected to you.”
“I deal with Dane Wembleye.”
“In slaves, yes. But in gold? Dane Wembleye sends you his rejects and keeps the able slaves for his iron mines. If you send slaves with me back to the Mainland, you will see a portion of the gold mined and another partnership with a Mainland ruler. This time, a king.”
“I do fancy having a claim on the Mainland.” Magni twisted his mouth to the side. “Very well, gold merchant. How much do you offer me?”
“As I said, a partnership with King Bardia of Grunid and a quarter of the gold your slaves mine in your stores.”
Magni’s eyes lit up at that, then smouldered with greed. “Half is a sweeter song to my ear.”
Felaern expected this. Magni could say all he wanted about having enough gold in his stores. It was a front—men of the Isle never had enough gold, no matter how wealthy they were.
“Half it is,” the stranger agreed.
Magni seemed much more receptive then. “I’ll allow you to choose whichever workers you want. You may take up to a hundred. I’ll have my strongest men gathered for you to pick from.” He pulled himself to his feet. “I have many strong men who have not been exposed to the Plight. Unfortunately, they are more scarce than usual. My healer here could save them at times...yet not the queen.” Magni’s eyes pierced Felaern. “But I will deal with that at a later time.”
Magni brusquely gave some orders to watchers standing around, gesturing for them to hurry. They leapt into action and Magni sighed, crossing his arms and standing next to the stranger.
“They are not motivated as of late,” he griped. “The Plight has them distracted.”
“The Plight...what is it?” the stranger asked.
Magni turned to him and scoffed. “Wretched plague sweeping through. It’s taken my camp by storm.” He grimaced and pressed his fingers against his chest. “It gets into the lungs...makes them bring up blood. It kills even young men.”
“Your king is aware of it?” The stranger’s brows knit.
Magni laughed. “Yes, he is well aware. His queen just died of it. But he’ll be off to the Mainland soon, I’m sure. He deals with a young king there who neglects to surrender the lands he promised.” The gem master’s eyes flickered with recognition, and his mouth quirked up into a knowing grin. “The very same king you serve. But I am involved in no such squabble...and thus may deal as I please.”
Magni brought them to the edge of the pit as the watchers gathered men, all of whom appeared worn and weary. Magni did not afford them much rest, and even less food. They were strong only because they worked so hard. Though they were fed little, they were better sustained than most. The elderly and young were hardly fed at all. Felaern and Haven had been given mostly scraps. Though, Haven was fed better when she became Magni’s servant.
Felaern looked around, wondering where she was. He expected Haven to be in Magni’s tent, either pouring the wine or feeding the lions, perhaps saying more than she ought and taking a reprimanding for it.
The men arranged themselves, afraid to step out of line as the watchers paced behind them with their whips. Hot wind whipped strands of Felaern’s hair into his face, and the sun above sent down waves of heat with a merciless constancy. The wind might’ve been a blessing, had it been cooler. Felaern pressed his cracked lips together, squinting again against the bright light as the men took their places, set on display for this stranger to assess.
