The Coming War/Chp. 1/ Rowan

Rowan

It had been a while since his youngest sister had last ran off into the woods. Often she hid and often she ran. It was hard to say which she would do at any given time. But for the past three months the woods hadn’t called to her as an escape as it so often did, and she could easily be found in the stables, the kitchens, the ruins, and the town even. Their Lord Father suspected it was the love the girl had for her “dance” teachers from Mankur, the neighbor to Dashur, a close neighbor. They were Ku Cyrah and Kur Kayode, twins that were always competing. But that did not bother his sister one bit, she loved it. She loved them and they had kept her on the grounds of the House of Vukovic better than he. For that, he envied them. He walked through the woods, with a pretty good idea of where she would be.

Ghost, his demon wolf, had found her first. She sat in The Mother’s Ring, back to one of the ancient Seer trees, Spirit resting at her side. His sister’s eyes were fixed on the God Tree. As they approached Spirit raised her head but did not rise to meet them. Instead Ghost dashed to her, they nuzzled noses, and he sat across from her. Rowan smiled, he and his D’tri wolf were much too alike. He walked over to his youngest sister, shrugging off his pack, noting that she was hunched against the tree, hugging her knees, and still in her nightdress. She’s been here since night, he thought grimly. She did not seem aware of his presence at all, which was quite unusual for her. Calmly, he placed a fur cloak on her shoulders and she still did not look up. He grinned and tried to make a jest to dispel his worry, “You know your Lady Mother is like to have your head for sitting out here in your night clothes, the Duenna too.” She made no reply, didn’t even glance up. Biting his lip, he sat beside her, spied Swift, her hunting hawk, up in one of the trees keeping watch or maybe searching for breakfast, he didn’t know.

“So you’ve been out here all night, but you didn’t think to bring you shoes,” he said, nodding at here bare feet. Usually she was always prepared for an outing, never once would she forget her shoes, hurry or no hurry. Plus there had been a light snow at dawn; he’d been up for it. He was glad that she at least had Spirit for warmth, the demon wolf was now the size of a regular wolf and would grow still bigger, Rowan knew. “Well, are you going to explain yourself or will I have to guess?” Silence, he felt he was being punished. He was punished often; he knew the feeling, but never from her. “Come on, Wilh, say something.”

Moments passed and then she spoke, her voice so faint he had wondered if he imagined it. She said, “They called to me.”

Rowan knew that they were the true natives to this land, the Others, the original Wildlings. Most called the Wildlings at least, they could just as well be fae, and might as well be. Wilh had always been fond of the tales about them and often searched the woods for them, one of the many reasons she ran off so much. She’d found what she believed to be a part of one of their weapons once and believed with even more tenacity that they were still out there. She called them The Children, because they were said to be immortal, but did not like to be questioned on how they continued their bloodlines as children. He just nodded at her comment, not knowing what else to do. There were times, few, yes, when Wilh felt as though the wood and the wild called to her and the spiritual and that was accepted by him. He would not question it but oh, did he worry.

“How about we eat something, I’m sure you’re hungry.”

Wilh tightened the cloak around her. She smiled at him, the smile he associated with warmth and sunshine, kindness and love. After all, they were hard to find for a bastard in the unforgiving cold of the northern mountains. Actually in all of Arkos, but he’d never been south. He took from his pack half a loaf of brown bread, the ham, two hard boiled eggs, and a third of a wheel of cheese. In his haste he’d forgotten to take the fruit Faye had set out for him to bring. Wilh laughed at the spread, but she cut the bread and he the ham. They each took three thick slices of bread, cheese, and ham and gave the rest to the two D’tris. While their wolves fought over and devoured the ham they ate the boiled eggs that needed both salt and pepper, but were still good. They buried the shells to help the ground. When they had finished their small breakfast they drank water from his oilskin and Wilh broke off bread for Swift to peck at before he found a mouse. It was only moments later that they stood and made to return.

As they walked through the wood, wolves at their sides and the hawk flying ahead, Rowan watched his sister. Slants of sunlight peaked through the leaves and dotted stars across their faces and clothes. In this light, Wilh’s curly hair looked russet instead of her usual copper and he could see all ten of her freckles scattered from one cheek, across the bridge of her nose, to the other cheek. Her skin, much like their Lord Father’s, varied from cinnamon to nutmeg brown. His own skin was a dark olive; he thought his mother probably had the same tone. In truth he didn’t know, he’d been a year when he last saw her. In truth he had been told that, that he’d only been a year when he came to the castle and into his father’s care. The Changing War was still being fought, and he was but a motherless child with the high chance of being an orphan had King Eric not won. Seeing that he was frowning, Wilh took his hand, startling him from his thoughts.

“Was everyone up,” she asked.

He stared at her for a moment, ponderously, then shook his head, “Nay, only me and Father, well, and the servants but they have to be up.”

She nodded, “True, but they are part of everyone. Did anyone else notice me gone?”

“Faye was the one who woke me after going to check on you. Father was up when I left, he seemed upset that you’d gone again and your Lady Mother is like to have your hide for it.”

Wilh laughed, “And Stelle shall never let me hear the end of it. I shall have to sit and sew and play the harp for a week.”

“And your lessons,” he urged, chuckling.

“They shall lock me in the room I’m sure.”

“As if any room could hold you, you are like the wind.”

They laughed, and, jesting, she spun him around in a dance. Grinning, Rowan obliged, he didn’t mind dancing, when he had a partner at least. Wilh loved it. And he, like their Lord Father, could seldom tell her no. After several moments she let him go and he stumbled while she danced away, her feet barely touching the ground. Her training with the Abadeer twins of Mankur paid off, she knew their tricks and ways, their style. Rowan chased her and every time he grabbed for her she hopped just out of reach. It was as though she bent the air to aid her. It was only when they neared Castle Frost, the tallest of the realm and strongest, that Wilh let Rowan catch her. The wolves helped, they jumped on them both and had them rolling and tumbling in the grass. Laughing, Rowan helped his sister up. Yes, that would always be the case, Wilh the Wild would only be caught when she wanted to be caught.

Waiting at the gates for them was Lady Leanna Vukovic, hugging herself, dressed in blue and spun gold; her cloak, flapping in the wind, was cobalt blue and made from satin. She glared at Rowan, dark wavy hair billowing in the wind. He just nodded and walked past her. When he glanced back he grinned at Wilh while her mother dragged her by the arm inside asking what the child was thinking running off like that and “in your her night clothes to boot” he’d heard. Wilh put on her best face of suffering apology and begged her mother for forgiveness, not trying to explain because she knew it would be no use. The Queen of the North was still a southron woman and they did not believe in the Call of the Wild. She thought it heathenish gibberish and refused to hear of it, a terrible decision in Rowan’s mind. Rowan and Ghost went to go find their brothers, by now they would all be up and have broken their fasts. He found Ned and Warrior outside the stables with the Master at Arms, Sir Darrick. At fourteen, Ned should have been able to practice with real swords but Sir Darrick wouldn’t hear of it, and so they sparred with wooden swords. It was a shame really, even Wilh sparred with a real sword from time to time and Stelle never sparred at all, she took after her mother.

The wolves barred their teeth at each other, all in play, and had a tussle while, arms crossed, Rowan watched his younger brother fight. He’d gotten much better since they were children, though they were still children now, but he still couldn’t beat his master. In one fell swoop, Sir Darrick sent Ned’s sword flying into the air, landing two yards behind him, and had Ned on his ass scrambling backwards. Rowan laughed and Ned gave him a sideways glare. Sir Darrick whacked him upside the head and Rowan winced in sympathy.

“You did well, but you still move too clumsily,” said Sir Darrick, helping the boy up. “A clumsy fighter is a dead fighter, and you cannot be a clumsy lord. What will your people think of you?”

“They’ll think they’d better hand the North over to Rowan,” Ned said, grinning. “Or better yet, Wilh.”

Closing his eyes, the old man sighed. “Such jests will not be permitted in the battlefield.”

Ned’s grin turned into a sad smile, “I know, Sir. But if I don’t jest I will cower and a lord should not do that either.”

At that the old knight nodded, “Aye, on your way then. We shall spar again at noon. Now it is your turn Prince Rowan.”

Rowan frowned; being called prince unsettled him, mostly because he was a bastard. Those that called him prince were those that mocked, all but Sir Darrick of course. “Aye,” he said simply.

They sparred, and, despite his age the old knight still had a hawk’s sight so Rowan really had to work to evade his blade and it was a blade. The old knight, known by many as the Hawk of Frost, had an aquiline nose and dark eyes that could see your next move before you made it. He stabbed at Rowan’s left side, tearing his doublet. Rowan stood on his toes and glanced down to where the sword had been, wishing he could dance around a blade like his sister, but the wind, like many others, did not love him. He spun away from another stab from Darrick’s sword and thrust his own blade at the man’s side, the Hawk just hopped away. He then thrust at Rowan to which Rowan was able to parry. He parried for a few moments, the Hawk giving him a cool gaze that gave nothing away. Then the old knight spun and aimed his sword at Rowan’s neck. Quickly, Rowan brought his own sword up to block him.

They held that position, glaring at each other, until Darrick straightened and withdrew his sword. He nodded, “Good, a split second later and I would have had your head.”

“Well that would have been fun to explain to Father, though I’m sure he’d understand,” Rowan replied, breathing a bit heavily. Truthfully he had been afraid but that was probably plain to the master.

“Nay, I would have just told him you were too slow.”

Rowan laughed nervously wondering how he should fair in a serious battle. Maybe I’ll sick Ghost on the opponent if my chances look slim. He wondered if that would be cheating, but there was no such thing as cheating in battles.

Now, two of his other half-brothers, Solomon of eight and Ty of four, were standing beside Ned, watching him. Ty had his thumb in his mouth and his right hand in Solomon’s left, they stared at him with big doe eyes, the color of steel. He grinned at them and Ty grinned back, his two front teeth were missing. Solomon on the other hand looked upset. Sheathing his sword, Rowan walked up to them.

“You alright, Sol?” he asked, reaching to pick up Ty.

“He had a dream,” Ty said in his ear, the toddler did not know how to whisper.

“About what,” Rowan asked Solomon, glancing at Ned who looked just as worried as he felt.

Solomon looked up at his brothers, a placid expression painted on his face. “It was nothing,” he lied. “There will be a celebration.”

“For who?” asked Ned.

“Father,” Solomon said simply, and ran past them to ask the Hawk if he could spar.

It was clear to Rowan there was something and that something bad would happen soon, maybe at the aforementioned celebration. But there was no way to pressure Solomon into talking about it. However, he and Ned thought they had better ask Father what the occasion would be, especially since Ned would have to act the heir that he was. Rowan put Ty down beside his D’tri, Frosty, and Solomon’s D’tri, Evergreen. They bid Ghost and Warrior to stay with their brothers while they went in search of their father. Craig Vukovic tended to spend most of his time with Myrad Agreste and, when he was not training the men and Craig’s sons, the Hawk. After questioning a few of the help, the two half-brothers went to the east wing of Castle Frost and climbed the winding staircase to the Myrad’s tower.

The door to the Myrad’s workroom was closed, as it often was. They could hear the gentle, yet strong voice of the Myriad and a low grunt from their father as the two men talked behind the door. “Maybe we shouldn’t bother them,” Ned whispered to Rowan. The older boy just grinned and knocked, Ned glared at his, outraged. Rowan just laughed until he heard their father, in his usual cold tone and low voice, say “Enter.” Rowan gripped the cold brass nob and pushed the door open inward.

“Father, Myrad,” he said, nodding to the two men.

Agreste was a man of average height and young age for a Myrad; he was nine and thirty in fact, with pale green eyes that seemed to be pools of wisdom, and pale white skin. He looked up at the two boys as they entered and closed the door quietly behind them, stroking his tawny, short beard. His eyes slid from them, over to their father who sat in the chair across from him, arms folded over his chest, brows furrowed, and glaring down at the maps before him. Craig Vukovic was, for the most part, a stone faced man. Like winter he was normally cold and grim, but like the snow, hiding life and warmth beneath him. His eyes were the color of steel and shoulder-length hair the color of copper; he glanced up at his sons. As Rowan knew it, he was the shame and Ned the heir, but never would the old Wolf admit it; for him at least.

“Is there something my lords require,” asked Myrad Agreste.

Rowan shook his head, “No, I just have a question for Father.”

Craig, still glaring down at the maps and other papers, letters mostly, before him, waved his hand for Rowan to speak.

“Well, Solomon seems to think there will be a celebration held soon, is there some occasion we should be prepared for?” He stood up straight as he said it, not daring to shift a foot. He was always rather nervous around his father, worried he’d make a mistake.

Craig looked up at him, the scowl on his face turning into intrigue. “Solomon never thinks anything, only knows, or else he wouldn’t speak of it.”

“He’d make a fine Myrad,” said Agreste, scribbling away at parchment.

“That he would, if he should so wish it,” Craig nodded. “However, there is no reason for a party today, not even a holy day.”

“He said it was for you though,” said Ned.

Craig frowned again, “There is no reason for a celebration, no triumph to honor.” He scratched his chin and stood. “I suppose we shall find out in time if it is happening tonight, but now we must attend to the matters of our realm.” He walked past them to the door, opened it and descended the staircase, “Boys, come.”

Glancing at each other, the brothers followed their father out the room, followed shortly by the Myrad.

The King of the North was a tall, lean man, with broad shoulders and a back that was ever slumped. Since his early childhood, Rowan had grown used to seeing his father’s back, so much so that he learned to memorize every feature when he got the chance to see the front of him. The realm had kept his busy into the wee hours back in those days, so Lady Leanna and Ned hardly ever saw him either, but with Rowan there was a more pointed intent with the rarity of his time with his father. Nurse Hazel had instructions from Lady Leanna at the time to keep him out of her sight, he knew that much, but no one had ever told him if his Father wanted him out of sight as well. It always seems as though he’s walking away. Especially when I’m not the one that can walk beside him, but there was no use in thinking about that. He clenched his fists and then unclenched them, and gave Ned a grin. “Another morning of the boring side of being a lord, aye brother,” he whispered to Ned.

“That’s why I sparred first,” Ned whispered back, winking.

“You can bring the D’tris in the hall if you want, make sure they don’t bite anyone though.”

“Warrior would never,” Ned said defensively.

“Ghost might,” Rowan admitted and Myrad Agreste chuckled. Craig shook his head, though Rowan could not tell if he was laughing or not.

In the Great Hall, also known as the Throne Room, on a raised stage sat the king’s throne. Carved from ancient evergreen, plated with iron and cold, the arms and legs of the throne were made to look like wolf’s paws with sharp claws. Although hardly anyone every minded it, there was a D’tri carved into the back of the chair, eyes locked onto its prey. Rowan stood to his father’s left while Ned stood at his right and the Myrad sat at a writing desk with a quill in hand and many sheets of paper, ready to record all of the morning’s work. Loren Baxter, the herald called for the first person to come up with his claim. A portly man, void of facial hair, with a mop of greying brown hair wearing a faded green tunic and brown breeches stepped up and bowed to Craig, with both hands clasped together.

“Your Majesty, I am Harren Vard from Ebbergard’s Valley, east of here and there has been a lot of rain,” said Harren, wringing his hands. “It’s washed the snow down from the mountains and overflowed the river, causing floods in several villages and well. Well the people of Thorne, Stone Borrow, Snowden, Maple Down, and Bank request assistance in building a damn or at least in the digging of canals to stop the heavier flow of the water.”

Rowan glanced at his father, the elder had his brows furrowed and was scratching his chin, thinking. Personally, he thought it would be a good idea but did not think the canals would work seeing as there was no space for them in the valley. He glanced at Myrad Agreste who just sat scribbling and smiling.

Craig nodded, “I shall have men there to aid in the construction within a fortnight.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Harren, bowing and then shuffling away.

Next came a woman with straw colored hair, and suntanned skin, dressed all in grey. She bowed, “Your Majesty, Ursula Stagg from Crest Mill requesting that the Pugh family keep their dogs off o’ me lands. The beasts tore up the rabbit hutches and then the family’s boys they come and filch them off, never paying for the damages or the rabbits.”

Again Craig nodded, “I shall send someone to deal with the matter. The boys shall contribute to the repairs if you like.”

This seemed okay with the woman because she thanked him and went on her way.

The next complainant was an old man with a long white beard, dressed in boiled leather. He stood up straight despite his appearance and assumed age, and gave a quick bow to Craig. He asked only for something to be done about the lack of aid in the Dredfort schoolhouse and permission to chop a few trees down to add on to the structure. He seemed to think the school would close because of it. There were a number of schoolhouses dotted around the Northern Lands, a mark unfound in the South where only nobility ever get tutelage. It had been very important to the last King of the North to have his people well learned. After a brief questioning of how many students attended the school in Dredfort which was eighty-two. Craig allowed the school’s extension and asked for the record of repairs done to the building. The old man nodded and went to the back of the room.

For the next two and a half hours, Rowan stood beside his father, listening to request after complaint after request, while Myrad Agreste recorded everything. Rowan was sure he would never want to be lord or king of anything and anyone so long as he could have his mornings to himself and not to the needs of others. Ned could have that. Every morning it seemed as though the whole of the North came to address their “king”, but it might have only been a third seeing as the North was the largest part of the kingdom of Arkos. Before he was even finished with everyone, Craig changed his mind and sent for an architect to meet the old man from Dredfort and design the extension of the schoolhouse to be made of stone with wooden beams and a new fireplace at the right spot where all the stones were heated during the colder days and winter as to allow heat to flow throw the building. Besides that and the few sobbing and terrified men and women from villages and towns that had been raided by a bandit group, nothing much of interest in Rowan’s opinion really happened. However, whenever Craig felt like his sons were losing interests he would glance up at them. Ned tended to flinch when that happened and Rowan’s instinct was to smile questioningly. Craig would frown at him.

When the last of the common folk left the room Craig rose slowly from his chair, straightened his dark grey tunic, and walked off the stage rolling his shoulders. Rowan and Ned stretched, relieved to be able to move again. Standing for almost three hours was a real pain on the legs, but neither could imagine standing all day long. A servant, Misha, a girl that hid her dark hair under a blue bonnet, brought Craig a cup of wine and two other servants brought Rowan and Ned water, they were only allowed one cup of alcohol a day and that was only during supper. Still, they took the water. Rowan sipped his as he followed his father out of the hall while Ned gulped it down. Now that business was over, he was back to wondering about Solomon’s prediction.