The High King: Book Two of the 'Riothamus' trilogy (11 page)

“I had no
idea.” Aran pursed his lips, “I wonder why Alissa never told
me?”

Maran
shrugged, “The plainsmen are a rather strange lot. I assume she did
not want you to think she had inherited any of their
tendencies.”

“She can be
moody,” Aran mused thoughtfully. “However I rather like the
quicksilver nature of her character. She keeps me on my toes.”

“And I’ve seen
clear evidence of the steel and strength in her,” Maran added
remembering back. “She will make you a fine Queen—that is if you
can talk the Council around to your way of thinking.”

“Aye,” Aran
chewed his thumbnail reflectively. “I
will
be interested to
see their reaction. I may be a quiet man however if I feel strongly
about something I
will
go after it!” He looked up at the
Archmage, “No group of self-important merchants and nobles will
stop me.”

Maran glanced
at the evening sky, “I ought to get going. There are many more
things to be organised before tomorrow’s dawn.”

Aran inclined
his head, “Until tomorrow Archmage Maran.”

“Until
tomorrow my lord Prince,” the Archmage replied bowing.

*

Despite the
prospect of the morrow, Aran slept well, indeed sleeping in until
almost mid-morning since his usual custom was to rise with the
dawn. Lying in bed, he stretched and yawned. Waking fully, he
roused himself and got up to see the prospect of the day.
Unlatching the stained glass pane, he stared out at a brilliant
blue sky with a cold westerly blowing in across the distant plains.
Behind him, he heard a noise, and turned to see Alem come into the
bed chamber with a bowl of lightly scented warm water.

“I thought I
heard you rouse my lord,” he said laying out the bowl and drying
cloth on the wooden table, “You’ve a full day ahead of you so I
thought it best to let you sleep in and get plenty of rest.”

“Thanks Alem,”
Aran replied, “I must have needed the extra sleep.”

Quickly Aran
washed and dressed in clean undergarments, and a plain, dark blue
wool hosen and tunic that had been laid out for him.

“I wear my
armour today,” Aran informed his bondsman

Alem nodded,
“It has been already removed to the camp of the plainsmen. They
have erected a tent in which you will armour-up.”

“Good, how
about breakfast? I’m starved.” Aran asked.

Alem glanced
at the door, “I sent Thaley to arrange some food for you…she
shouldn’t be long.”

There was a
step at the door and Darven poked his head in, “Good you’re awake.
Have you seen outside? It’s a beautiful day to crown a King!”

Aran nodded,
“How are the preparations going?”

Darven came in
and sat on the bed, “Well, the throne room is awash with colour.
All the hangings and banners have been cleaned and rehung. Alissa
has raided all the Keep gardens and there are flowers in every nook
and cranny, so much so that the entire Keep smells like a flower
garden. Archmage Maran and the Captain have been keeping everyone
rushing around since sun-up getting everything organised.”

The Wolf
Leader grinned, “You are the only person in the Keep who has been
allowed the luxury of a sleep-in.”

There was
another step at the door, “Breakfast,” a voice called out.

Alem quickly
went around the doorframe and came back with a large tray laden
with food.

Aran grinned
at Darven, “Let’s share, the kitchen always give me too much to
eat.”

Darven nodded,
“Aye…I’ve been going since before dawn and I haven’t broken my fast
yet.”

*

Darven glanced
at the sun outside, “Are you ready to go and get armoured up. It is
almost an hour before midday.”

Aran nodded,
pulling on his boots and buckled the Kings sword about his waist,
then finally throwing his heavy black wool cloak over his shoulders
he glanced at Darven and nodded, “Let’s go.”

Alem collected
a few items from the bed-chamber, and then the three men quickly
made their way down through the corridors and stairs of the
internal Keep.

Aran looked
around for the Keep seemed deserted.

“Where is
everyone?” he asked.

Darven laughed
“In their quarters. Tradition states that all must remain there
until it is time for everyone to gather in the throne room.”

Aran shook his
head in bewilderment, “Another custom?”

The Wolf
Leader smiled and nodded, “Aye, the heir must not be seen to be in
the Keep until the time of crowning. Even the Guard will stay
within barracks, and the ones that are on duty at the gatehouse
will close or avert their eyes as we pass. So don’t try and
acknowledge them, they will ignore your presence.”

Aran grinned,
“Thanks for telling me.”

*

It was uncanny
walking through the silent Keep. Even the buzz of background noise,
which was always evident during the daylight hours, had stilled.
For once even the gulls had ceased their endless calling and
fighting on the high cliffs of the Havart Plateau, and a heavy
silence had fallen over everything and everyone. Quickly and
quietly, the three walked past the silent soldiers at the
gatehouse, each armoured guardsman seen to have eyes tightly
closed.

Outside the
Keep, the wind blew cold and strong and the tents of the plainsmen
quivered with each blast.

“Autumn’s
here…” Aran commented to the others.

“Aye,” Darven
agreed, “It’s going to mean a difficult campaign on the border. I
predict that we’ll be doing a hell of a lot of heavy fighting in
the snow.”

Aran pulled
his cloak closer about him, “Great…”

*

The three men
at last reached the camp of the plainsmen and were greeted by
several of the warriors who had come out of the nearest tents. Aran
recognised Bini Stardreamer and his two companions amongst the
others who had hurried up to the three men from the Keep.

“Fine day
lord,” Bini said cheerily.

Aran stared in
amazement at the plainsmen. They were dressed only in dyed and
decorated leather trousers and boots. On their bare chests they
wore no garments, but displayed on their bare skin were elaborate
tattooed designs in shades of blue and black dye.

“Aye
plainsman,” Aran said eyeing off the peculiar garb of the warrior,
“Shouldn’t you be dressed warmer. You’ll catch your death out
here.”

The warrior
laughed merrily “We do not fear the cold, lord. This is our
ceremonial dress.”

Aran stared at
the designs, “What do they mean Bini?”

The
golden-haired warrior glanced down at his own chest, “They are
sacred symbols. Patterns passed down from our ancestors and each
design is a little different. They are engraved upon our flesh
during the passage to manhood, through long and personal initiation
rites.”

Aran grimaced
as he stared at the tattoos, “It sounds painful.”

The warrior’s
head dipped marginally, “It can be,” he agreed wryly.

Aran and his
two companions were then shown into one of the larger conical
leather tents. Most of the tents were too small to stand in, but
the one allocated to Aran was tall and framed with bone, wood and
sinew. Inside, and on the ground they saw a small fire banked in a
hearth made of blackened stones. The thick leather of the tent
effectively captured the warmth radiated by the coals keeping the
inside of the tent warm and comfortable. Aran looked up and noticed
two small holes that allowed the smoke to escape and the fresh air
to gain entry. Looking around Aran noticed his armour lay ready on
some horse and wolf pelts.

“It’s getting
close to midday,” he said, “I should get armoured.”

Darven nodded,
and he and Alem quickly and efficiently began to dress Aran in his
chainmail and plate armour.

“Will I wear
the nasal helm?” Aran asked, as they slipped the chainmail coif
over his head and secured it with the leather thongs across his
exposed neck and chin.

“Aye, the
Archmage will remove it and the rest of your head armour prior to
crowning,” Darven replied, “It is traditional that the heir comes
to the crowning fully armed.”

“It is not a
simple thing this crowning,” Aran observed, “There seems to be much
tradition and custom associated with it.”

“Aye,” Darven
agreed, “The Archmage must have done much research and reading to
discover the proper ceremonies and traditions. It being so many
generations since we last crowned a king.”

Aran fell
silent, it was clear that Darven did not know that Maran also
shared the Andurian lineage and once was a crowned king.

The tent flap
moved and Bini thrust his head in, “Hail Riothamus! The horns are
blowing from the Keep.”

Aran looked
up, “Riothamus?”

Darven made a
final adjustment to the buckles of the helmet and straightened,
“It’s the plainspeople’s word for high king.”

“Clan Chief
over all clan chiefs,” Bini added qualifying the explanation,
whilst lifting the tent flap so Aran and the others could move
outside the tent.

Aran stepped
out into the cold, windy day and heard clearly the horns blowing
from Andur’s Keep.

“That is our
signal, lord,” Darven said, “They are ready for us.”

Aran nodded
and waited, whilst Alem quickly fastened the heavy wool cloak about
his mailed shoulders.

The dozen or
so tattooed warriors of the horsetribes came up to Aran one by one.
Each golden-haired warrior murmured “Hail Riothamus,” whilst
bending his head, and hiding his eyes with his palm in some obscure
genuflection. Aran waited until the last of the warriors had formed
behind him, and then with a nod to Darven started the long walk
back to the Keep.

As they neared
the stone walls, Aran could see the ranks of Guardsmen lined up,
barring entry into the Keep. Captain Taran and Bear Leader Caldor
stood at the very front of the heavily armed men, unsheathed swords
in their hands.

“Who comes
seeking entrance to Seawatch Keep?” Taran shouted against the
screaming gulls.

Alem walked
forward, “I Alem, Steward and Bondsman bring Arantur of Leigh, last
of the Andurian line, lord and Prince of this Keep and heir to the
Andurian throne.”

“Who speaks
for him?” Taran asked.

Darven walked
up to stand beside Alem, “I, Darven of Eastling…Wolf Leader of the
Andurian Guard speaks for him.”

“Can you
Arantur of Leigh show us proof that you are of the Andurian line,
that you should be given entrance to this seat of kings?”

Aran walked up
to stand between the two men. Slowly, and without fuss, he
unsheathed the King’s Sword and held it up. In the midday sun, it
flared suddenly with its own cold radiance.

“We see
proof,” Taran replied, eyeing the brightly blazing weapon. “Enter
then Seawatch Keep and claim your inheritance Arantur of Leigh and
last of the Andurian line.”

Aran lowered
the sword but did not sheathe it. Nodding to Darven and Alem, and
the group of warriors behind him, he watched as the Guard drew
aside to open a way for him and his company to pass through.

Several steps
brought him under the gatehouse and into the Keep. Silently the
great doors swung shut, and the Guard formed into ranks behind the
plainsmen. Aran turned and saluted the half dozen guardsmen left
behind to watch over the security of the Keep during the
ceremony.

“Let’s go,”
Aran murmured to Darven.

The three men
stepped out and into the Keep, the plainsmen and Guard a phalanx at
their back.

Swiftly they
walked back through the deserted yards and to the stone steps of
the internal Keep. Quickly they moved through the corridors and up
the stone spiral stairs, until they finally reached the massive oak
doors of the throne room. Captain Taran stepped forward and rapped
smartly on the doors with the pommel of his sword. Silently they
swung open to reveal the throne room filled to capacity with men
and women dressed in their finest and most ceremonial tunics and
gowns.

Aran glanced
up and saw first the throne chairs garbed in flowers and cleansed
until they shone darkly in the midday sun. On either side of the
dais stood the mages, all were clad in robes of Glaive grey with
the coloured mantles of their Abilities draped about their necks.
Behind the mages were gathered the Councillors of Haulgard in their
uniform black gowns and caps. Standing close to the dais on one
side of the mages was Cody, Trevan, Alissa, and the girl who was
the Council’s choice for Queen.

Aran smiled to
himself—Alissa was dressed in a gown of the darkest blue velvet, a
clear statement of intent to anyone who cared to interpret it, of
her determination to win the role of Queen.

Standing
directly in front of the thrones was Archmage Maran and the
Priestess Delana, the two representatives of the highest authority
of the province, the Goddess herself.

‘I am here
brother,’ whispered a gentle, warm voice at his ear. ‘I have been
swimming with the whales for many weeks—they too move in the waters
below this place in honour of our coronation. There is much power
and many voices here but I can endure this to share your glory and
give you strength.’

Aran smiled in
relief and whispered a silent thanks to the spirit of his sister
Sarana.

Looking up
again he saw the Archmage nod to him, and indicate that he should
now move to the dais.

Aran turned
and briefly smiled at Darven and the Guard and plainswarriors who
waited behind him.

“I must go on
alone,” he said quietly.

Darven nodded
and saluted, falling back into the ranks of his fellow soldiers,
“Good fortune to you, my lord Prince,” he said quietly.

Aran turned
and started the slow walk to the thrones, the King’s Sword flaring
brighter with magepower as each step took him closer. All about him
and front of him, the people and representatives of the great
southern cities and towns drew aside, creating a clear passage.
Moments later he reached the throne.