Crowchanger (Changers of Chandris) (21 page)

Prince Jaevan.

The thought shot through Sylas’s mind like a stone from a sling. How many errors of protocol had he committed? Should he kneel, as if to King Deygan, or was a bow sufficient? He had expected to meet the prince in a more formal environment, if at all, and for Ayriene to have briefed him beforehand. No room in these cramped aisles to kneel, he decided, and made a hurried and ungraceful bow, raising his head only slightly to make the sign of the Lady, thumbs and forefingers together to make the shape of the mountain peak.

“My humblest apologies, Highness. I did not expect to see you here. I will leave you to your studies.”

He gathered up such notes as he had made, in his haste forgetting that the ink bottle was uncorked and sloshing the black liquid over the tabletop. Biting back a curse in his own tongue he looked around for something with which to mop the spillage. In his desperation he considered tearing a strip from his shirt, knowing full well that would earn him trouble from Ayriene. The ink had missed the books, thank the Lady; he shuddered to think what the punishment might have been had he damaged some of these priceless parchments with his clumsiness.

The lad smiled, showing white, even teeth. He reached into his tunic and brought out a kerchief.

“Use this. Not that the desks in here haven’t seen their share of ink over the years.”

Sylas muttered thanks, sopping up the ink and then holding the kerchief awkwardly. Did he return it to the prince, wet and stained, or take it and attempt to get it laundered?

“Keep it,” Prince Jaevan said with another smile. “It is only a little thing.”

Sylas bowed again, preparing to make his excuses and run, but Jaevan stared at the table, then at Sylas, realisation written across his features.

“I know you, I think,” he said. “A Chesammos scholar, writing with a brush instead of a quill. You are from the Aerie. You must be Ayriene’s apprentice. Tell me I am wrong.” His boyish face lit up with pleasure at having worked the puzzle out for himself.

Sylas mumbled something about not being much of a scholar, hoping Prince Jaevan would give him leave to go before he showed himself to be a fool, or broke something, or both, but the prince waved him to a seat with an eloquent gesture of his long, thin hand. The prince himself sat across the table from Sylas, the damp, black stain between them.

“Do you know what my father and Ayriene are talking about when they shut themselves away?” Jaevan said. “They discuss my symptoms. My aches. My cramps. Mistress Ayriene tries to convince my father of what we both know is true and he still fervently denies. She tests me for this and that, at his insistence, but all the signs point to one thing, and one thing only.”

Sylas stared. Ayriene had not told him why they had come, only that King Deygan had summoned her. For all he knew it was a regular occurrence. Was he understanding the prince correctly?

Jaevan scowled, a strange expression on such a flawless face. “It’s my life they are talking about. It’s not fair. They should listen to me.” He paused, pulling on his lower lip. “Tell me, changer. What did it feel like when you first changed? Did it hurt? What is it like to fly?”

When Ayriene found Sylas later, he was sitting in the courtyard with Jaevan. The pair were deep in conversation. Sylas had Jaevan sitting cross-legged on the ground in Chesammos fashion, despite there being a perfectly serviceable bench nearby, and the two talked animatedly, their chatter and laughter echoing around the courtyard. Ayriene could not remember the last time she had heard Sylas laugh. It was a shame the circumstances were so inappropriate.

They looked odd, dark head bent close to the fair, and they drew curious glances from passers-by. Chesammos were entirely absent from the castle—the servants were all Irmos—and a Chesammos would never be seen treating an Irenthi as a near-equal. The castle staff were unsure whether to be affectionately indulgent of their young prince, or utterly scandalised. Ayriene had no such doubts. All but dragging Sylas away, she told him in no uncertain terms that what he had done was not proper.

“But he asked me to sit and talk with him, Mistress. He says he will be king one day, maisaiea-yelai, and he wants to understand all his people, not just the Irenthi. He says his father thinks nothing of the Chesammos. He sees us as a tool by which the most unpleasant and most dangerous jobs get done. Jaevan—Prince Jaevan—wants to make things better for us.”

Sylas’s hopes were understandable, if unreasonable. If the Chesammos survived as a people until Jaevan took the throne, and if a changer was allowed to become king, Jaevan would find himself as hamstrung by tradition and politics as had his father.

“Idiot!” said Ayriene, giving him another cuff round his head for good measure. “Don’t you think that Deygan himself spoke that way once? When Prince Jaevan becomes king he will find that ruling does not mean pleasing himself, but juggling the needs and wishes of the king’s assembly, by whose right he holds the throne.”

Sylas looked hurt, and Ayriene regretted her harshness. During their travels she had become genuinely attached to Sylas, and was pleased that his eyes had lost the hunted look they had worn in the Aerie. But sometimes he had no more sense than an ash beetle. Sitting in broad daylight talking to the heir to the throne as his friend and equal, indeed. If Deygan were to hear of it he would likely order Sylas removed from the castle, or at least prohibited from speaking to the prince without proper supervision.

Sylas sat, subdued, drawing with chalk on a slate; parchment was too precious for him to practise on. His brows were furrowed and his deep brown eyes seemed even darker than usual. He drew with an intensity that Ayriene recognised. Her apprentice was troubled, and her reprimand was only a part of it.

“Sylas?” She raised an eyebrow at him, hoping he would share his thoughts. Stray fragments of chalk dust clung to his clothes and he brushed them off with a frown.

“I like him, Mistress, and I think he likes me.” The frown deepened to a scowl. His Chesammos features reminded her of a storm brewing, dark and foreboding. “He has no friends his own age. He has brothers, but they are younger. The one nearest his own age is more interested in horses and archery than books and knowledge, and the next one is just a child. His father is busy—too busy to spend much time with him—and his mother is dead, so he has no one but his tutors to talk to about his interests. He is lonely, I think. And…” he hesitated, as if reluctant to betray a confidence. “Mistress, do you and the king talk about whether Jaevan may be a changer?”

The bluntness of the question brought her up short.

“Prince Jaevan, Sylas. If you disrespect the prince it will be bad for you. Even with me, you must watch your tongue, in case you grow too used to bad habits. It is no concern of yours what the king and I talk about.” She willed herself to maintain the upper hand despite his sullenness. “Has the prince spoken to you about it?”

He nodded. “He thinks he is changing. He has the pains, and he said he heard a call at the Aerie. He is frightened, Mistress, and no one is telling him anything.”

He is lonely, I think.

The tone of Sylas’s voice haunted her and she realised that Sylas might as well have been talking of himself. He had no one his own age, only his tutor to talk to and that tutor so busy of late that he had been left to his own devices. She had neglected him. Ayriene wondered if Jesely might be prevailed upon to make one of his visits to the castle. Sylas got on well with Jesely. But that was another tutor; what he needed was a friend closer to his own age. And at least she could encourage his friendship with Prince Jaevan. Sylas’s relationship with Casian troubled her. That could only end with Sylas hurt when Casian eventually cast him aside.

“I will speak to the king. It could be that he may let you meet with Prince Jaevan, although probably in more formal circumstances than today.” She smiled faintly at the recollection of the crown prince sitting in the dust in his fine clothes, throwing his head back to laugh at something Sylas had said. It could be that this unlikely friendship would be exactly what both of them needed.

Chapter 21

B
anunis had been in a state of growing excitement about the upcoming feast day since before Sylas and Ayriene arrived. Officially the anniversary of Deygan’s coronation, it had also become a celebration of Chandris repelling the Lorandan invasion. The two events had happened within days of each other, the invaders thinking to strike at a young, untried ruler.

Sylas begged Ayriene to let him go and she had intended to accompany him, but had contracted a head cold from a patient and had taken to her bed with some of her own remedies. Sylas was nervous about going without her—the city would fill with visitors for the celebrations and the streets would be more crowded than usual—but he wanted to see the procession. Jaevan and his brothers would ride in the carriage with King Deygan, and would help him throw silver and smallcoin to the populace. Sylas’s main interest was seeing his new friend in his princely role, standing beside his father.

The crowds began to fill the streets early, people staking their claims to the best spots. Over the years, the places had been marked where it was easiest to catch one of the coins thrown by the royal party. Mostly the king and the princes threw coppers, but an occasional lucky person would be on the receiving end of a half-regal, or even a regal. The scrum for the silver coins often got dangerous, Ayriene warned Sylas before he set off. He intended to stay well clear.

He had no need to scrabble for smallcoins. The pouch at his belt, which he tucked carefully inside his tunic before he passed the castle gates, held a few more coins than when he arrived. On occasion, encouraged by Ayriene, Sylas had set up in the courtyard of the castle, waiting for customers to come to him as they did in the villages. He had earned a little extra from that, enough to buy himself some ale and a pie or two at today’s festival. He had no personal expenses, as his food and lodging were provided by House Banunis. He might be sleeping on a pallet at the foot of Ayriene’s bed, a curtain pulled across the room to give a little privacy, but it was better than most nights on the road.

He exited the castle gateway and went out into the streets that led to the lower city. A storm had passed over the previous night and Sylas had sat at his window, unable to sleep as the thunder rumbled its way over the castle. Lightning had forked, slicing the air to crackle through the ash-brick towers, and the rain had lashed the streets and houses of Banunis City.

His feet slipped on the smooth, wet cobbles, the leather soles of his boots worn thin from travelling. One leaked, the cold damp seeping through to his feet; he examined the boot with annoyance. Then he chuckled. Desert Chesammos wore no boots. The soles of his feet had themselves once been as tough as leather.

The crowds grew denser as he made his way down the hill, the press of bodies jostling him, making him uncomfortable. He saw more Chesammos faces than usual—men, women, and children joining the crowd in the hopes of catching one of the regals to sustain them through the lean days of winter. Here and there a cry went up when someone discovered the cord of their belt pouch had been cut. Sylas tucked his purse deeper inside his tunic and considered returning to the castle. The smell of old sweat turned his stomach, and his pulse raced at the unfamiliar feeling of being carried along by the press of people, sometimes entirely against his will and into areas of the city he did not recognise. He had thought to stay in the main street, since that was the way the king’s procession would come, but for respite he took himself into a side road, leaning in a doorway to regain his composure.

The smell of fresh-baked pies drew him to a small stall set away from the main throng. The pie-man was doing good business, even off the main thoroughfare.

“I didn’t fancy my chances out there,” the man commented. “If my stall wasn’t overturned in the press, I’d have lost pies left and right to the street children instead. The little buggers are quick enough to dart in and take one while my attention is with a genuine customer. At least this way my proceeds feed my own children, not some guttersnipe.”

Street children? Among the Chesammos even the poorest were cared for. Even in the worst of times, none need steal or beg to support themselves. Sylas munched thoughtfully on his own pie, good and hot and spicy, with a flavour he thought he should know but was unable to identify. He wondered if Jaevan knew that children right on his father’s doorstep were having to steal to eat.

A hubbub from the main road announced the approach of the procession. Soldiers beating drums marched ahead of the parade to clear the way and streets that had already seemed crowded to Sylas became more so as people squeezed to the sides to let the carriages through.

Clashing cymbals and blaring trumpets preceded the king’s carriage, and then Sylas could see him. Jaevan stood at his father’s side, resplendent in red robes and with a circlet around his head, a linandra stone in the centre of his brow. Deygan wore the king’s coronet—a more ornate version of the one Jaevan wore, set with the biggest linandra Sylas had ever seen. The two younger boys must have been perched on stools to see over the sides. Their white-blond heads were bare, but they wore the same red robes as their father and brother. The king and the three princes dipped time and again into the baskets of coins. Deygan’s arm arced outward like a farmer sowing seed and people plucked the coins from the air or scrabbled for them on the ground. Jaevan and Marklin copied Deygan, and little Prince Rannon did his best, although his coins dropped far closer to the carriage than those of his brothers.

Jaevan’s eyes seemed to search the crowd. Not looking for Sylas—he could never have spotted Sylas in all these people—but as if he sought the neediest. The king’s blessing, they called these alms, and people snatched the coins from the air, clutched them in their fists and kissed their fingers. Sylas’s heart swelled with pride watching Jaevan. He would make a fine king one day and maybe, if Sylas succeeded in his training, he could be court healer. Then they could be friends always. His determination flared into passion. Whatever it took for him to succeed, he would be a healer and serve Jaevan.

An instant later, Sylas noticed stones flying towards the carriage from all directions. The street here was narrower than most other roads in Banunis—the perfect place for an ambush. The stones flew so fast that no arm could have thrown them. They had come from slings: the weapon of the Chesammos.

The two guards riding on the back of the carriage leaped in beside Deygan and his sons, pushing them to the floor and protecting them with their bodies, but not before Sylas saw one of the younger boys fall under a stone and Jaevan with blood streaming from a wound to his forehead. Sylas’s stomach lurched. He could help; he was a healer. But the carriage driver whipped up the horses, and the soldiers in the front of the procession pushed the crowd out of the way to get the carriage back to the safety of the castle walls. People screamed. It seemed the carriage driver was not too particular about people being out of his way as he whipped the horses forward. Sylas wondered how many were being brought down beneath pounding hooves.

Sylas scanned the crowd. One attacker was behind and to the right of him. He caught a glimpse of golden brown skin and dark hair as the man turned to flee. Elsewhere, others were overcome and handed over to the king’s guard. Sylas tried to push through the throng to the man who had been behind him. He had hurt Jaevan. He could not be allowed to escape.

“Here’s another. Take him.”

Rough hands grabbed him, pinning his arms to his sides. His first instinct was that of a wrestler. He broke the hold, taking a grip on his assailant’s shoulders in turn. In a fair fight, one on one, Sylas would have had the measure of this man. He was no wrestler; he stood too heavily on his feet. Sylas turned, tripping the fellow, who landed on his back in the dirt. Another man grabbed Sylas’s shoulder and he whirled, landing a punch to the second man’s chin. By the Lady! A healer should not be brawling in the streets. The thought had barely crossed his mind before a blow to the small of his back from a third man dropped him to his knees, sobbing for air, streaks of light splitting the blackness that gathered before his eyes.

Sylas was hauled to his feet, one man twisting his arms behind him and another holding a knife to his throat. The man he had dumped in the ash took the opportunity to exact his revenge. A punch to Sylas’s gut doubled him over as best he could under restraint, coughing and wheezing as the breath was knocked out of him. The man rubbed his knuckles grimly and looked to be considering which part of him to hit next.

“Leave him be.” A man wearing the livery of the city watch strode forward and the two men not holding his arms fell away, abashed. “We’ll take it from here. All the bastards who attacked His Majesty have been taken. Next you’ll see of this fellow, he’ll be swinging at the end of a rope.”

Sylas tried to protest. He was no rebel. He was a changer of the Aerie. A healer. A man was allowed to protect himself, wasn’t he? A few of the city folk spat at him, but mostly he heard voices muttering “Chesammos scum” and “hang the filthy bastard.” They would listen to him once he was back in the castle. There they must recognise him for who he was and release him.

He was bound, hands behind his back, and bundled like a sack into the back of a wagon with four other men. He knew one by sight: Neffan, a wrestler from Cellondora. One of the men had taken a wound to his right side, and blood soaked through his homespun tunic. He looked about Sylas’s own age, with his beard only soft fuzz on his cheeks. Sylas kicked the driver’s platform to attract attention.

“Guard, there’s a man hurt back here.”

“Keep it down, you.” A soldier leaned from the bench and jabbed Sylas with the butt end of his spear.

“What will happen to us?” He was sure he knew the answer.

“You’ll be imprisoned, tried, and then strung up by the city gate, as you deserve. Your filthy Chesammos heads’ll be stuck on pikes as deterrent for any of the rest of you who crawl out of the desert to threaten the king.”

“I’ll not be hanged,” said Neffan grimly. Sylas saw that Neffan’s hands were bound in front of him, not behind, and that he had managed to work his pouch free of his tunic. From the pouch he drew a stone, all sharp edges like a flint, and drew it across his wrist. Fool man. He would not draw enough blood like that to kill himself. Droplets of blood formed on the golden skin, and the man smiled with satisfaction. His friends stared in horror at the welling blood.

“By the Lady, Neffan, you know what you’ve done?” One of his fellows hissed at him, his face drawn.

Neffan nodded. “Four hours, maybe five. But a death of my choosing, not of the king’s.”

Sylas stared from one to the other. They knew something he didn’t. The man tried to throw the stone at one of the guards, but with his hands bound he could get no force behind it. It bounced harmlessly off the guard’s boiled leather jerkin and out of the wagon.

“What is he talking about? What has he done?”

But none of the men said a word. The wagon shuddered to a halt, and they were manhandled out into the courtyard of Banunis Castle. The guards were none too gentle, and the occasional fist or boot found flesh if the prisoners did not move fast enough for their liking. Sylas found himself in a part of Banunis he had never seen, nor ever thought to.

The castle prisons.

The prisons were as grim as Sylas might have expected. The smell of a thousand men held there over the years made him gag—the combined stench of sweat and vomit and human waste. A few handfuls of straw had been tossed on the stone floor, and the only light came from a barred window high above. Around the walls, metal rings hung at intervals. Either he and the others were too unimportant to be shackled, or the soldiers didn’t expect they’d be there long enough to warrant the effort. Sylas wasn’t sure which option was preferable.

The injured young man’s legs gave out once they were through the door, buckling under him so that he dropped as if felled. Sylas crawled to him, pulling the fabric away from the dark stain on his tunic. A knife or sword had pierced his side, beneath his ribs.

Sylas went to the door. Made of stout wood, it had a small, barred observation window. He shouted between the bars, “Hey! We need help here. One of these men is injured.” There was no response. He shouted again.

“Don’t care, as long as he lives long enough to be hanged,” came the answer from outside.

“I need a message taken to Mistress Ayriene.”

“Mistress Ayriene? The changer?”

“That’s right. I’m her apprentice.”

Sylas could hear footsteps along a flagstone corridor. The gnarled face of a man with close-cropped greying hair and several days’ growth of stubble glared through the window. When he spoke, Sylas could see gaps where teeth had been, and smell the rankness of his breath.

“You a changer, boy? Turn into a bird and fly away, then. You could get through the bars up there, I reckon.” He cackled unpleasantly.

It came as no surprise that the jailer didn’t believe him. With dirt on his clothes from the street, muck from the prison floor and stains on his tunic, he looked every bit the Chesammos criminal.