Beyond the Spire of Navarene Page 2

  “It would broker a future,” Galahalt cut her off, “A free one.”

  ✧ ✧ ✧

  5 years in the past...

  “One last thing,” the artist said, the back of his legs bumping the chair as he stood, and the ensuing crash startling the young woman who was making her way towards the door, intent on departing the shop.

  “One last thing,” he repeated, passing under the doorway.

  “Yes?” She turned to him. Her nerves were nearly shot, and she was wholeheartedly looking forward to going back to her chambers at the estate and sleeping until she recognized some semblance of this world.

  The artist held one hand up with his thumb to his forefinger, “The curvature of the fellows’ nose?” he asked.

  The young woman nodded expectantly. He continued, “Was it a gentle slope cascading from the forehead, or was it more bulbous like a ripened tomato?”

  She closed her eyes though it pained her to relive that dreadful scene.

  Sir Connor Duncan’s killer ran off, leaving the old knight to bleed out in the cold mud alone and unarmed. When Eulba felt it was safe, she ran to her lord and cradled his head in her lap, screaming for help over the sound of the pouring rain. She clutched his head to her chest and wept pitifully as his light grew dim and faded.

  She opened her eyes, returning to the present. “Sloped, I guess. It had a ridge on it between the eyes. Like it had been broken before.”

  “Oh excellent, excellent! An important detail to be sure.” The artist folded his hands in a prayerful manner before speaking, “I am at a loss for words to describe the sorrow I feel for that noble knight’s passing. I will not delay you any longer.”

  “I won’t feel sorrow for the coward who did this to my lord, if your sketchings prove their worth,” she responded, her eyes hardening thinking of the murderer.

  He crossed the room and held the door open, standing aside with a reverent nod. Smiling faintly, she strode past him and stepped down onto the stoop as the crisp spring air greeted her. The long winter was clinging with icy fingertips and the gentle spring breeze still had more of an edge than was welcome. Eulba was irritated by the weather. It felt like a guest who overstayed his welcome and had just poured another fresh pint before settling back into her favorite easy chair.

  As she headed back towards the manor, Eulba decided to forego attending the outdoor funeral service. With each step, the beckoning song emanating from her bed chambers gradually increased in volume. Even though rumors swirled that members of the royal household would be present for the dreary days’ festivities, the welcoming silence of sleep was a much more powerful draw.

  Clouds spread across the skies, restricting even the faintest strands of light from punching through to the earth. The scent of bread baking and meat roasting permeated the atmosphere as food purveyors prepared for the public wake. The private service, reserved for the knight’s relatives and close friends, was usually held within a smaller sanctuary, but for Sir Connor, the main hall of the Basilica had been rearranged to host the proceedings. The judgments scheduled for that afternoon had been postponed until the following day, as the Arbiter himself would be at the service.

  Eulba worked her way along the cobblestone street and found herself barred by a crowd that was moving in the same direction, but plodded at a snail’s pace, blocking the entire lane. Eulba turned at the sound of hooves clicking from behind to see three women in royal livery trotting past on regal-looking palfreys adorned with dark gray and ebony fabrics. Their stern faces were pinched into pained expressions, and Eulba heard one official sigh loudly as the throng gradually parted down the center, allowing the horses to pass. The first official waved her palm dismissively as she entered and the people tightened away from the horses as best they could, widening the gap a few more inches.

  A teenage girl in a drab woolen cloak took advantage of the extra space and sidestepped the incoming horses, cleanly extricating herself from the roving congregation. Eulba caught the girl’s eye from under the drawn hood and the two exchanged a smile of recognition when their paths crossed.

  I hope Margot is not traveling far on her own. After glancing over her shoulder, Eulba shook her head and stepped into the crowd following a swinging tail adorned with black ribbons. Raising her eyelids was pure labor and each footstep felt like she was trudging in a mound of oatmeal. The distant warmth radiating from the crackling hearth and the feathery soft blankets in her stablemaster’s quarters were now shouting to her…and she held little interest in any other matters.

  Gazing out the window of his shop, the artist watched the crowds trudge past on foot, each with an eye open for the occasional mounted rider, as they plodded their course toward the melody of a dirge now playing from inside the Basilica. The faint notes sailed on the breeze, reaching his doorstep at a volume just louder than a hum. A few of the passersby recognized the tune and quietly sang with heads bowed.

  “You should know this one, Pietr,” he said to himself, rubbing his eyes. The mental exhaustion was taking its toll. He heard the song over a hundred times throughout his entire life, but he could not recall the title, or even the lyrics. Leaning closer to the window he began humming along, matching the pitch, when suddenly the answer plunked into his mind like a tossed ball into a waiting hand.

  “The Knight’s Elegy,” he exhaled. “Such a basic name for a basic song.” He placed his thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut, then walked back into the studio. Setting the fallen chair upright with a groan, he placed his arms behind his back and stood facing the cluttered desk. Pietr often spoke to himself when he was alone, and when a person interrupted, the artist would continue the audible thought without a hint of embarrassment before smoothly transitioning his attention.

  Being born from a family that was renown for producing strong fighters and warriors who more often than not became distinguished knights in service to whomever they swore allegiance, ensured The Knight’s Elegy would serenade them…but not Pietr. Very rarely was a Revelle born without the Warrior’s Sign and such an occasion was highly remarkable.

  The Revelle Estate resembled more of a training ground than an upscale dwelling for a wealthy household. For example, the tiltyard sat adjacent to the primrose garden and the servant’s quarters were inaccessible if the gauntlet was in operation. Any tardy member of the house staff held that excuse ready on the lips.

  Pietr was born a disgrace to his family when he exited the birth canal those nineteen years ago without the familiar Warrior insignia etched onto his neck. When the attending lampyr held up the tiny body, dripping with fluids for all to admire, he nearly choked on the words upon proclaiming that the babe was born under The Architect. The room emptied quickly with Pietr’s father the first to press through the old oak door muttering curses under his thick beard. Pietr’s mother was left behind while the lampyr held the screaming disappointment in an otherwise vacant room.

  The story, as told by his grandmother, went that his father, Lord Hakon Revelle, marched directly to the stables and selected the closest mare, and mounted while ignoring the dissenting young stablehand’s advice. He attempted to ride through the night on a horse that was not properly shod to offer his newborn son to a trademaster somewhere in the southern reaches. Pietr was always grateful that his father’s arrogance prevented him from heeding the hostler’s advice, for the return trek to the estate in the clear night air allowed Lord Hakon some time to contemplate his hasty decision as he humbly lead the limping animal back home. Once the fires of indignation dwindled to ash, his father realized the potential of a family architect and argued whole-heartedly against kin in favor of raising the newest Revelle, although not a warrior, within the confines of the estate.

  Pietr’s frame was scrawny and meager in comparison to his siblings and relatives, preferring the ink quill to a steel blade. His lack in skill with a sword was painfully apparent when he reached the age for sparring, though he never ga
ve up, even after being overthrown or disarmed repeatedly.

  The family was ill equipped for raising an architect, and it was not until he reached the age for apprenticeship that they made the decision to employ a tutor that would open the boy’s mind to vastly new worlds. The bumps, bruises, and calluses from the training yard soon faded as young Pietr buried his face in books and scrolls, soaking up all manner of knowledge, but focusing mainly on the subjects of fabrication, art, physics, geometry, carpentry, and most important to his father, blacksmithing.

  As the years of study under the guidance of his tutor continued, Pietr became proficient in several trades, but above all, he favored the sketch pen. It was no secret that Lord Hakon was grooming Pietr to become the estate’s engineer, so when a mechanism went awry on the gauntlet or a pulley shifted out of alignment in the tiltyard, his father would no longer need to seek repair by various tradesmen as long as his son lived in their halls. For a while Pietr dutifully repaired the broken swing arms and secured the winches on the contraptions, and did so with minimal downtime for his grateful warrior kin. Sometimes he even exceeded expectations.

  One morning the Revelle family awoke to discover their beloved training gauntlet in pieces, the blunted blades resting in the morning dew allowing rust to overtake them. The shouts of dismay carried beyond the garden walls, and Pietr was nearly throttled into oblivion when he admitted to the travesty. When Pietr, with trembling hands, produced a stack of sketches for an improved version of the gauntlet, Lord Hakon could hardly form the words for a proper apology as his eyes poured over the prints. Sifting from one page to another, the old warrior marveled at his son’s prowess of mind just as he would if one of his warrior sons managed to unhorse a superior knight in a tournament. Pietr never forgot that look.

  Now, some years later, Pietr used his tremendous skill with ink and parchment to recreate the faces of thieves and murderers using the accounts of those who witnessed the crimes, describing their features in detail, allowing him to sketch accurate likenesses to post all over the city. Or at least within the relative vicinity of the act. This was the primary function of his humble shop, but he was not above drawing the occasional lost kitty for heartbroken children that crossed his threshold giving descriptions over tearful shudders. But just as with the symbol on his neck, the Revelle family saw little value in the business. After the first year yielded a staggering profit for the young man, the narrative changed and his family quickly recognized the value such a unique service provided.

  Pietr settled into his chair, his mind wandering to the floor as he began contemplating some sort of mechanism that would prevent his studio chair from toppling over every time he stood. After a few minutes of aimless moustache twirling, he decided that it would be much simpler to plane the floor instead.

  Now that those moments were spent, never to be reclaimed, he rolled up his sleeves before lighting the candle overlooking his work desk. Shadows played all over the studio walls, cast by protrusions made by the contraptions and art pieces that his imagination willed into existence. Directly behind him, held aloft by a pair of curved ogre tusks, was a handcrafted horn bow that he designed and painstakingly constructed from rare and expensive materials over the course of several years.

  Pietr was the first to admit that he was an embarrassing swordsman, but his precision and accuracy with a bow was nearly unparalleled. Perhaps it was his innate comprehension of physics and timing that provided such horrifying prowess at the archery pells, or perhaps it was the Revelle blood that coursed in his veins.

  Several excursions into the wilds of Fenrirfang provided the necessary materials for the weapon. A handful of alpha ogre tusks and just a few pounds of faewolf sinew provided the bulk of the requirements, but the most important ingredient was the heartwood from an ancient guest. The latter was not only outlandishly expensive, but acquiring it also proved quite problematic and Pietr found himself in several uncomfortable predicaments, the least of which involved a bucket of carp and a handful of cockatrice feathers.

  A remarkable quiver complete with a bundle of arrows hung underneath the bow, each one fletched by hand using plumage harvested from frosthale owls. The main housing of the quiver was comprised of tanned ogre hides, which offered a distinct shade of blue, and the buckles and base were forged with gilded metals. In the center, a medallion which resembled the Revelle family crest was pressed into the hide, but Pietr had made an adjustment to the design that caused some hurt feelings. He encapsulated the crest with the mark of The Architect, which was clever, but the seemingly small detail shot up a few red flags. For a family well known for stalwart and bold knights, it was funny how the softest slight could incur such controversy.

  Pietr’s desk was cluttered with sketches and measuring devices, calipers and rulers mainly, and a smaller table to his right held a short stack of notes he scribbled while the stablemaster gave account earlier. Shapes and calculations occupied each parchment and were kept within an arm’s reach should he require reference. Pietr tucked a pinch of dried, salted meat into his cheek, saliva welling inside his dry mouth, softening the pinch just enough so he could work it with his tongue between his lower teeth and bottom lip.

  “Hmmmmm,” he reached for another pinch. “She wasn’t certain whether his earlobes were attached or not, but did recall that the right lobe had a ring in it. Perhaps I should put a ring in both ears in case she was mistaken…that should offset whether his lobes are attached or not.” He nodding to himself, lips smacking.

  Folks passing by the window and the sounds of horses clopping on the cobble diminished as he worked through the afternoon. The public service for Sir Connor was well underway which left the streets nearly barren and the common areas uncommonly quiet. Opportunities that offered hours of ceaseless sketching were a rarity, and Pietr sought to capitalize on it. The goal was to have a handful of posters finished by the time the private service was dismissed.

  A blunt knock lifted the artist’s head from the vellum and he listened quietly for a few moments. Another round of knocks confirmed his suspicion and when he stood, the chair caught, sending it crashing as he stepped away.

  “I really need to refinish that floor…” he muttered as he reached for the latch on the front door. His drawing pen was in his hand so he quickly passed it to his left then pulled the door open.

  “Cousin,” his first cousin, Cahan, stood on the front stoop in armoured attire. A pristine crimson surcoat inlaid with silver passed under a brilliant set of plated pauldrons which met a gorget that clung just under his chin, and below, emblazoned on the chest, the royal symbol. Cradled under his arm was the helm of a guardsman, and a smile played on the man’s bearded visage as he looked up at Pietr.

  “May I?” he asked, slightly tilting his head toward the empty room.

  “By all means.” Pietr swung the door wider on its hinges and gestured a welcome with an open hand. “It’s a bit curious to me, seeing you wearing the robes of a humble guard. Aren’t you to be receiving your belt today? Am I mistaken?” he questioned, scratching the back of his head.

  Cahan raised an eyebrow as he set his helm on the stand by the entryway. “That was the charge. But tragedy befell the house of Duncan so the ceremony has been put off for a week,” he said, limply clapping his leather gloves.

  Pietr placed both hands behind his back. “A most tragic turn of events for all.”

  “Yes, and as you can see,” Cahan replied, looking down at his own garb. “I drew a short straw in the barracks.”

  “So you exchanged the prospect of knighthood for lowly sentry duty,” Pietr clicked his teeth as he crossed the room. “For shame, my dearest of cousins. May I offer some wine or brandy to stave the chill that still plagues us?”

  Cahan waved dismissively. “Stiff drink is forbidden while on duty.”

  “Such laws are overruled by the artist’s code of hospitality,” Pietr raised two wooden mugs. “You know this.”

  Cahan shook his head
and raised a palm, “I must decline, as much as it pains me. A cup of mulled wine would serve to take the edge off, but I can’t tarry long.”

  Pietr frowned.

  “The family was uncertain as to whether you received the invitation to the feast. Your most dearest of cousins only gets knighted once.”

  Pietr opened his mouth to respond, but Cahan continued, “As fate would have it, my patrol led me past my cousin’s art studio or shop, or whatever you refer to this place as, and I thought to myself, ‘Hey, why don’t you check in and see how old Pietr is faring in this great big city? And while you’re at it, check and see if he’s coming out tonight.’”

  Opening his mouth again to respond, then hesitated, waiting for an interruption that did not come. “I have been so busy in the shop,” his shoulders sagged. “That, well…” his writing desk peered back at him, strewn with parcels and unopened correspondence with the seals still intact. Cahan’s eyes followed his cousin’s gaze and immediately understood.

  “You’re a busy guy,” placing a hand on Pietr’s shoulder. “I don’t take it personally, but you know how the rest of the riff raff can be.”

  “Wait. Is the celebration still taking place?” With eyebrows furrowed, taking in his cousin’s outfit. “What do they intend to celebrate?”

  Cahan laughed and clapped Pietr’s shoulder then turned towards the door, “You’re joking, right? The arrangements were made ages ago! Do you think the Revelle’s will allow meat and mead to go to waste? Come on now.” He placed his helm on his head then flipped the visor up. “We would celebrate a broken rake if alcohol was provided.” Cahan opened the door and made to leave. Pietr walked to the door and held it while his cousin stepped outside.

  “So we will celebrate an undisturbed pile of leaves?”

  Cahan beamed from under his helm, “Ah, so I will alert the matriarchs! Dear Pietr will be darkening our hallways.”