Mordraud, Book One Page 13

  “That sounds an excellent idea...” murmured Raelin, nodding approval. Dunwich noticed that smooth gesture with annoyance. Of course he’d be happy, he told himself. The dean was concerned that he might covet his position. But with Dunwich in the Lances, the one who’d have to worry was Asaeld. “The boy has great potential – there’s no doubt about it. We’ve just had the chance to admire a totally perfect resonance... He could do very, very well in the Lances...”

  Dunwich didn’t know how to answer straight away. He adored war chants, and knew he had much to offer in that field. But becoming an Imperial Lance was something different.

  “You’d have to be fully trained in personal combat, riding and military strategies. A Lance has to be competent in fighting, chanting and studying the enemy’s moves, to pre-empt them. Very few have what it takes,” Asaeld concluded, puffing out another cloud.

  “An amazing opportunity...” whispered Denor in shock. His unattainable dream. To be summoned by Asaeld in person.

  But Dunwich knew nothing of fencing or fighting. He hadn’t yet weighed up the idea of a future in the army. Far more likely as a chanter. But as a soldier on the battlefield? Risking his neck armed with a sword and his resonances?

  “How far could I get?”

  The question threw Asaeld. Seneo opened his mouth to rebuke him but then decided not to interfere. Dunwich wondered how much he could earn in that business. A substantial amount. Or important favours perhaps. He was ambitious for more. Money, of course. And to bring his family to Cambria, if possible.

  Silia’s hand slipped further along his thigh.

  Dunwich noticed Lisea draped around Denor out of the corner of his eye. She was caressing the nape of his neck. A slight movement. She was utterly gorgeous. But he had no hope with that body imprisoning him.

  Not with her.

  “How far would you like to go?” asked Asaeld, returning the question. He was staring at him, expressionless. Waiting, as if about to pronounce a conviction.

  To power, thought Dunwich. The power to have a woman like Lisea clinging to you, or to attract Silia. The power to command other people. To put into practice chanting’s infinite scope.

  The power to always win.

  “I want to get to... the place where Cambria wants me.”

  Asaeld smiled, blowing a billow of white smoke out the corner of his mouth.

  “That seems fair.”

  Seneo looked from Raelin to Dunwich. Denor was the first to react. He unleashed a light punch at his friend’s shoulder and shook his hand. All those around the table immediately began commenting on events.

  “Should I ask now what I need to be able to start?”

  Asaeld stood up and bowed his head like a soldier towards his captain.

  “There’s no need. You’ll be provided with everything you could desire.”

  ***

  The other youngsters had left some time earlier, and Dunwich had been asleep for several hours in the large leather armchair in front of the fireplace in the lounge. After the brief and striking incursion by the Imperial Lances, the party had returned to its previous pace. Denor had gutted Dunwich in downing wine, following the departure of the other guests. Seneo had changed room along with Asaeld. The boy could be seen from the other side of the passage, through the open door. A dishevelled heap crumpled in an armchair. Seneo observed him, puffing distractedly on his pipe. The aroma of a light woody tobacco lingered in the air, sucked in by the meek flames of the fire.

  “You really can’t accept it, can you?”

  Asaeld was sitting opposite him, on a chair. He’d removed his armour and was dressed in the civilian clothing the attendant had brought along. He seemed far less imposing and authoritarian – a peaceful fifty-year-old with refined manners. His face was the only harsh contrasting element. Square and rugged. He was smoking too, a long curved pipe. Its chamber was covered by a perforated silver dome that had become dull through assiduous use and heat. A classic soldier’s pipe, mused Seneo, straying from his reasoning for an instant. Ideal for smoking at the front, in wind or rain.

  “I just don’t understand you, Asaeld. However exceptional he might be at chanting, what makes you think he’ll be able to handle a sword? He might be hopeless.”

  “I don’t know, it’s just a feeling,” replied the Lance in a thread of a voice. “I hope I made myself clear the other day. Aiming to take Raelin’s position isn’t enough. I already have arrangements with him. And they’re rather... productive.”

  “Which means all my work has been pointless,” concluded an annoyed Seneo. “I’ve trained him to be a great chanter. Not a soldier.”

  “You’re wrong. You haven’t wasted your time, not even one day. The Lances are now indebted to you, and you’ll see that this will prove somewhat useful. Or do I have to remind you why it’s in your interests to always accept my proposals?”

  “No, there’s no need for that,” burst out Seneo, sinking his back into the plump armchair. Dunwich was still sleeping heavily in the other room. “Part of me’s sorry. He’d have been marvellous as my successor...”

  “Your... successor... How low you set your goals, my friend,” murmured Asaeld smiling maliciously. “There are better things, and I’m surprised you still haven’t noticed.”

  “Such as? Your successor?! That’s not very kind of you,” retorted Seneo, weighing his words.

  “You wanted to shape him to be a teacher. Yet, if you’ll allow me to say, you might even have nurtured a potential... emperor...”

  Seneo’s pipe drooped on his lips. Emperor. It was preposterous. An impossible idea. ‘Dunwich isn’t a descendant of the Loren family. How could he... Emperor...?’

  “It’s not such an impossible idea,” Asaeld went on. “Loralon is childless. He’s tried many times... but he’s sterile. I won’t list for you here what I’ve seen and heard – I see many things from my position. But he’s attempted everything. Everything.”

  “But... he’s got cousins, relatives... scattered throughout the conquered regions and ruling as governors or commanders! They stand directly in line for succession.”

  “Of course! But that’s a future, very distant, problem. The Lances want to receive their just rewards at last. Loralon should well know the war would already have been lost without us.”

  “So...” whispered Seneo in terror, “you’re talking of... You don’t mean...”

  “Conspiracy?!” exclaimed Asaeld, genuinely disgusted. “You must be joking! For love of the Gods, don’t even consider it! Yours is a loathsome proposal. No, I was talking about natural succession. Dunwich could be perfect.”

  “Why?! That’s exactly what I can’t grasp!”

  “Oh, it’s quite simple!” Asaeld’s voice mellowed to an admiring tone. “Resolute, extremely gifted, of humble origins, with great charisma and nerve... He’d merely need to learn how to rule with wisdom. He already has the courage to do it. Loralon could notice him, and take him into consideration... After all, even if he’s not the shrewdest of the Lorens, he knows that the person helming an empire must have a firm hand and the army’s respect. Dunwich could become all of this.”

  “I hope you’re right,” commented Seneo, drawing carefully on his pipe. It had gone out, but his was purely an instinctive movement. Something in his eyes had changed. Interest. Disappointment was a fleeting shadow.

  “Trust me. Many do... and you should too,” replied Asaeld, with a faint smile.

  VIII

  The clashes at the front rocked like a huge meandering snake. Cambria would take control of a part of the valley, then the rebels would seep in and push the Imperial troops out from a mountain base. Pitched battles were rare and sudden, their place taken by blood-draining guerrilla warfare: the rebels would pounce on battalions as they camped by the sides of the roads leading to the border at night, or they would systematically break the supply lines towards the capital.

  Eldain was an astute strategist, and more able perhaps than the ones in Loralo
n’s employ, who carried on unperturbed in wagering everything on the difference in size between their forces and the enemy’s number. The Lances had greatly varying ideas, particularly Asaeld. Yet the commander never openly expressed disapproval. The Lances were, and had to remain, a weapon at the Empire’s service.

  The Arcane churned out chanters, the army ranks were fattened constantly with new recruits, and the harvests were as plentiful as always. But something was changing. A subtle tension niggled in the air: the awful idea that the war might never end made flavours more bitter, perfumes less pungent and colours more bland. The chanters were ever more poorly trained, reared like farm chickens, in a whirlwind, to replace those slain during the rebels’ calculated raids. It was hard to deploy a choir at the front. It would come back in tatters and riddled with holes. Controlling resonances was the sole force Eldain did not possess. In fact, he feared the chanters above all other Imperial threats.

  The new conscripts sent to the front were the sons of peasants crushed by hunger, war orphans, men with no training, lads with little motivation; the fruits of the fields were the exclusive privilege of those dedicated to the war effort. Flour supplies were controlled by the army.

  “If they don’t get a move on, everything will fall apart here.”

  “Huh? What did you say, darling?”

  Dunwich turned away from the window, where he was contemplating the dawn as it brightened over Cambria’s rooftops. A sight in keeping with his mood. A burning frenzy, that tingled in anticipation of solving all those problems. He knew what had to be done.

  “Nothing. Go back to sleep, it’s still early.”

  “You’re uptight, aren’t you? If you like...” The white sheets slipped down, revealing her bosom. “...I can help you relax a little...”

  “Not just now, Silia. Wasn’t last night enough for you? Go on, get some rest.”

  Dunwich’s voice was detached and cold. His eyes were far away. Even his body – naked and contoured by his training sessions – didn’t actually seem to be in that bedroom.

  “You behave as if I were bothering you, but you certainly didn’t look at me like that yesterday evening... Quite the opposite... I really don’t understand you,” groaned the girl, turning away huffishly. Dunwich went back to gazing out of the broad window, totally indifferent to her whinging complaints. This was his day. And his alone.

  Not that Silia was unappealing to have at his side. Since his perpetually stunted growth had subsided and his physique had blossomed, Dunwich had discovered he had quite an effect on women. Silia had been quick in snapping him up before he could take advantage of the situation. Almost as if she’d been waiting for that moment for years. A capable and attentive lover, who caused little nuisance and knew how to keep to her place. He couldn’t remember one occasion when she’d dared to intrude in any of his decisions. A perfect girlfriend.

  But boring.

  Dunwich felt little more than mild affection for her, and was fairly convinced she was aware of this, and accepted it. Silia loved his career that was galloping towards success, she was already dreaming of a villa in the heart of Cambria, jewels, wealth... Polite parlours for wiling away tedious afternoons in chatter. Or at least that’s how Dunwich saw her. But he was seldom wrong in his assessment of people. It was part of his job.

  “And aren’t you sleepy, darling? You should rest too. Today’s a big day!”

  “No, I don’t want to sleep. Please, leave me to think.”

  “Okay... okay,” whined Silia, heavy-hearted.

  The house had been given to him by the Lances: an attic apartment in a historic building not far from the Military Academy. Those silk sheets, the fine chestnut furniture, the decorated gold-leaf headboard – they were all gifts from the Lances, eager to look after their protégé. A wealth Dunwich knew not what to do with. The monthly salary from the Lances was so sizeable that once he’d sent a large chunk home, he still had plenty left over. ‘Home... I hope they got my last dispatch of gold Scudos...’ he mused, as his eyes roamed among the steeples piercing the sea of roofs. Thinking about his family always sank him into dangerous nostalgia, and that wasn’t the day to give in to memories.

  ‘I wonder how they are. Has mum recovered? And the boys?’ he thought, racked by a stinging unease.

  Dunwich had only managed to see Gwern once since his birth, when the boy was three. That’s when he’d treated himself to a few months of travel alone. He’d made the most of the opportunity, visiting Calhann in the south, the white cliffs in the east and the forests in the north, with a short interlude at home, mentioned to nobody. But the situation he walked in on was not pleasant, to say the least.

  Eglade seemed unable to get over the pregnancy, and Mordraud loathed him. However hard he’d tried to talk to him, to explain to him why he’d stayed away, he stirred little other than streams of ranting and rows. He’d left, rather crestfallen, with the unfair feeling of having wronged them.

  In all those years of incessant and demanding study, he hadn’t given much time to his family. But that was why he’d gone to Cambria: to study and make something of himself.

  So why should he feel guilty?

  ‘Besides, my pay’s enough to keep everyone! What was I supposed to do, never come to Cambria?!’ he mulled, cursing through clenched teeth. Dawn was a blanket of red fire cloaking the immense slumbering town.

  He had to shut out those thoughts. He’d sent some excellent doctors to examine his mother, and taking great risks. If it became known that he’d sent men beyond the front, his career would seriously suffer. Right now, that he’d reached what he’d coveted so much.

  This was his day, and he had to think about that and that alone.

  The Military Academy had been child’s play. The long strategy lessons couldn’t even vaguely be compared to the complex resonance ones. His talent had shone even in combat training, and to his great surprise he’d found he liked using a sword almost as much as chanting. He’d used his creativity to remedy his still under-developed body. While aspiring Lances usually focused on how to fight in armour and use a shield for defence, he’d put everything into speed and nimbleness. He’d discarded his shield. Instead of sheltering himself from blows, he’d learnt to dodge them or exploit his adversary’s rashness to get behind his guard. Lacking any real physical force, he’d sharpened his aim and precision. Already at the end of the second year’s training, few could get the better of him in combat. By the third year, nobody could. Including various instructors.

  Complaints swelled like a haze of envy. He respected none of the rules, he didn’t follow etiquette. Dunwich’s back was too well-covered, by Asaeld and his Lance captains. Purely to keep his teachers happy did he accept, during the third year, to wear any armour. At twenty-three he looked sixteen, but his muscles and broad shoulders made up for what his Aelian blood had held back. At twenty-four, he was sent out of the lower ranks and appointed to join Asaeld’s personal escort. His career had just started, from the point where most normally culminated.

  His father had had the right intuition betting on his hidden abilities.

  The friends he’d mixed with during his Arcane years had all gone their separate ways. Ronio went on working on pure resonance investigation, to write new chants for the Imperial choirs. Denor was finishing his studies, and would soon be joining the Academy. He was still hoping to become a Lance, and he was close to achieving his dream. As far as Dunwich knew, he was living with Lisea, who’d begun working for a renowned herbalist in town. Dunwich smiled: she wasn’t aware of it, but he’d organised that job for her. He’d always liked Lisea.

  “Pity I never got her into bed...” he muttered sadly.

  His fellow Lances had loathed him at first. They made it perfectly clear in the early days. Then they figured out it was better for them to fear him and keep in their places. Dunwich had given the most irksome of them a lesson or two in humbleness, showing them up in front of the group, in brief battles where the outcome was already obvious
at the start. Victory upon victory. Asaeld himself had borne witness to one of those displays of arrogance, and had jokingly duelled with his protégé at the end of the lesson. Dunwich hadn’t paled alongside the commander-in-chief of the Imperial Lances.

  Eventually, he got what he craved most.

  Respect.

  The climate radically changed. Many of the young men who’d jeered at him the previous year got into the habit of avoiding him, observing him from afar and trying to do what they could to draw some benefit from his presence. He had his own little group of faithful companions who were already looking forward to a good career in the Lances, which would unquestionably be coaxed along by his acquaintance. Without even noticing, he’d found Silia had moved into his home, ready and eager in bed, wrapped like a gift in his sheets. People came to his door every day, waiting for the privilege of walking with him. Letters and love notes from admiring ladies much older than him. And far more beautiful than Silia.

  If Dunwich had been interested in any of these, he could have spent weeks on end never sleeping in the same bed. He could have married girls of the noblest lineage, offered by fathers covetous of the prestige he might bring. Yet since he wasn’t attracted by money, he hadn’t the slightest intention of taking a wife, or of exploring dozens of lovers. Silia was more than enough to satisfy him, and never got in the way of anything.

  She was the woman who served his needs. At least until he should set off for the war.

  And that yearned-for moment was drawing ever closer. He could almost see it, beyond that red sunrise marking the end of his studies and waiting.

  That day, Loralon in person would appoint him Imperial Lance, in front of the entire battalion, lined up in full ceremonial dress. He’d receive the fraternity’s black and gold armour, the black cloak and the sword engraved with episodes from the Lances’ history. Asaeld would be there, as always. That figure whose shadow had protected him throughout. A constant and yet fleeting presence. Dunwich had already been informed that the chance to leave for the front would come in autumn. If he was lucky, he’d find time to make a quick visit home. If he was lucky.