His Own Good Sword (The Cymeriad #1)
Read His Own Good Sword (The Cymeriad #1) Online
Authors: Amanda McCrina
His Own Good Sword
Amanda McCrina
Letters of Transit
Atlanta
Copyright © 2013 by Amanda McCrina
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced or retransmitted in any form, or by any means,
without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpt
from
William Tell
by Friedrich Schiller,
translated by Theodore Martin, courtesy of Project Gutenberg.
Map by Amanda McCrina
Cover design by Fly Casual
amandamccrina.com
fly-casual.net
To Angela and Mat, comrades-in-arms
Map
Character List
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
A Note on Pronunciation
About the Author
In Vessy, capital of the Imperial province of Cesin
Tyren Risto, newly commissioned in the army
Torien Risto, his father, the provincial governor
Tore Risto, his brother
Chæla Risto, his mother
Challe Risto, his sister
Juile Risto, Tore’s wife
Anno Rovero, the steward
Sere Moien, captain of the household guard
Vaurin, a guardsman
A new slave
In Rien, a fort town in central Cesin
Lucho Marro, the regional governor
Luchian Marro, his son, newly commissioned in the Guard
Recho Seian, his son-in-law, Luchian’s adjutant
Marchin Ruso, commander of the fort
Alluin Senna, a legate
In Souvin, a village in western Cesin
Remin Verio, interim garrison commander
Aino, a corporal
Regaro, a corporal
Sælo, a soldier
Rian, a soldier
Nevare, a soldier
Bryo Muryn, a farmer
Ayne, his wife
Their sons
Maryna Nyre, a healer
Magryn, the native lord
Ryn, his oldest son
His wife and other children
Maurien Rægo, an army officer from Rien
Daien, his adjutant
Morlyn, a rebel
Bryn, a rebel
Ceryn, a rebel
In Choiro, the Imperial capital
The Emperor Berion
The Senate
Chion Mureno, an army officer
Chæso Rano, head of the Rano family
Michane Rano, his daughter
Elsewhere
Juilin Viere, governor of Chalen
His wife and children
Friedrich Schiller
William Tell
In truth he’d rather not go to Vessy.
He’d considered just sending a letter from the post-station at
Chælor. That would be the easiest thing, for himself and his
father both. Certainly for his mother. But if he didn’t go now
there was no telling when he’d have the chance to go again and
it was two years already since he’d last been home. No—better
to go, to break the news in person. Harder, maybe, but he owed them
that much. This was the last time in what would probably be a very
long time he’d see either of them. Harder, in person, but it
was the right thing to do.
At the crossroads at Chælor, where most of the big roads in
this northern part of the province came together, he took Risun onto
the eastward road leading to Vessy. The road ran close along the
shore of the lake Morin and for most of the way it went on pilings
because the ground was reed beds and soft green marshland that
flooded in the springtime. Vessy itself, the ancient Cesino capital,
was built on a hillside above the lake. The oldest part of the city
was at the base of the hill, below the causeway: fishermen’s
huts and ships’ housing and rows and rows of mossy weathered
mooring stones. The younger part, above, was Vareno-built, and the
buildings stood out starkly from the old Cesino buildings below—walls
of white marble rather than flag-stone, roofs of clay tile instead of
straw thatch.
The villa of the Risti sat on the very crown of the hill because
Torien Risto, Tyren’s father, was the most powerful man in
Cesin, and one of the more powerful men in the Empire.
For the entirety of the hour’s ride from the crossroads to the
villa at the top of the hill Tyren rehearsed in his head what he’d
say to his father. He knew, in the back of his mind, it was best to
tell him plainly, straight out, without excuse, because excuses were
weakness, and if there were anything Torien Risto might hate more
than some tarnishing of the Risto name, it was weakness, especially
weakness showing forth in one of his sons. Best to tell him plainly
and quickly. The longer he delayed the harder it would be. Maybe he
wouldn’t say anything at all, just hand his father the
commission and let him see it for himself.
The villa had changed very little in two years. Probably it had
changed very little in the nearly two hundred years since it was
built. It had been built very soon after the war was won and it had
been built in Vareno fashion: a square walled yard, the house at the
far right-hand corner, stable at the left; slaves’ quarters and
storehouses and the guardsmen’s barracks elsewhere round the
perimeter; a fountain at the yard’s center. Most likely that
original Risto lord had meant it more as a symbol of his power than
anything else, an inexorable reminder to the Cesini in the old city
below: what are your mud huts compared to this great thing of marble,
after all? Because it had always seemed more a mausoleum than a
home—a hushed and frigid place where you never talked above a
whisper and the whispers ran coldly along empty corridors and
porticoes until they died away into stone. A house of death, and
those didn’t change.
The guards on the gate-wall recognized him, raised their hands in
greeting and sent a runner right away to the house to take word of
his coming. Tyren rode through the gate and up the cypress-lined
white gravel path very slowly. The sick sense of dread that had
settled in his stomach back at the crossroads was coiling tighter
with each hoof beat now. There should have been joy in this
homecoming. He’d been gone two years and by every right there
should have been joy in this homecoming. But there’d have been
little enough joy even if the circumstances were changed, if things
had gone according to plan. If the commission had been according to
plan. No, the only way for this to be a joyous homecoming would be if
somehow his name weren’t Risto, and his father’s name
weren’t Risto, and home were some other place than this
white-washed tomb.
He dismounted in the yard, stiffly—too long in the saddle—and
looked round while the servants swarmed about him to take the horse
and his bags. He discerned Anno Rovero, his father’s steward,
coming towards him down the steps at the doors of the house. So his
father wouldn’t even come to greet him; apparently the steward
was enough. He was irritated, suddenly. He’d been hoping to see
Torien right away. Delaying would make it harder.
Rovero, coming close, said, “Good to have you back from the
capital, Lord Risto.”
Tyren was mud-spattered from the road, hadn’t really bathed
since he’d crossed the border two days ago. He could see the
mild distaste in Rovero’s smile.
“Is my father here?” he said, shortly. Impolite to ignore
the greeting, but Rovero had only spoken by rote, and there was no
point carrying on the pretense. Rovero had never spared him much
regard. He was the second son and politically inconsequential.
“Not at the moment, no, sir. They brought up the yearlings this
morning.”
Torien Risto prized horses. He kept a fine stable and he took care to
inspect his young horses personally. He’d be spending the day
with the handlers, learning which colts had promise for racing, which
for breeding, which fillies to add to the broodmare stock.
“Let me know immediately when he gets back,” Tyren said.
“Of course,” Rovero said. “I’m sure your
father will want to congratulate you personally on your commission,
sir.”
Tyren made no answer to that. He wondered, with a sudden clenching
tightness in his heart, if Rovero knew. If Rovero knew then doubtless
Torien knew and his coming to Vessy was to no purpose after all. But
there was nothing in Rovero’s face—no irony, no malice.
The tightness eased away again. No, the news was still his to break,
whatever comfort that was.
Inside, as he remembered, the house was cool and quiet, the thick
marble draining every bit of warmth from the mid-day sun. His bags
had been deposited in his old rooms on the north-facing wall of the
house. The rooms were bare now, though kept free of dust, and he’d
no sense of fond memory when he saw them. He’d been glad enough
to leave, four years ago, when he’d gone to the capital to
train as an officer—glad enough he was the younger son of the
Risto family, bound by long tradition for soldiering, and not the
older, the heir, to be rooted in this place forever. It hadn’t
been a bad childhood, maybe, to be raised with all the privilege of
the Vareno nobility, but it had been a loveless one, strangled by
duty, by pride. The army was the place for that—not here, not
between family. At least in the army your name meant nothing. Here
the name was everything.
He opened the shutters of his bedroom window to let in some light.
From the window he could see across the yard to the small stable for
the saddle horses, and he kept an eye on it while he washed up, but
Torien didn’t come. The rustle of silks out in the anteroom
announced his mother’s presence. He turned to see her standing
imperiously in the bedchamber doorway, one hand on each jamb. Two of
her serving-women hung back behind her at the entrance to the
anteroom, their heads dutifully bowed.
“You might have sent word you were coming,” she said,
“and given me the time to prepare things properly.”
“I saved you the trouble,” he said. He hid his
distraction, went to her and put his arms round her, and she stood up
on her toes to lay a cool kiss on the side of his face.
She was beautiful, his mother: tall and long-limbed, her skin the
color of sunlit heather honey, her face proud and strong yet
fine-boned, her arching dark brows delicate. Her black hair was
styled simply, pulled back smoothly and severely to the crown of her
head and then let down in loose, glossy ringlets over her shoulders;
anything more was unnecessary, would somehow detract from her beauty,
which was natural and effortless. They still talked about her in
Choiro, her birthplace—Chæla Risto, the most beautiful
woman in the Empire. She might have had any man she wanted in her
younger days, and there were those who said she did, and for the
first few months of his own time in the capital Tyren had won some
fights and lost some fights concerning that. But she’d married
Torien Risto. It was love for Torien, back then. He’d been
admired and celebrated enough, and the Risto name respected enough,
that he might have married much better, married into one of the great
Choiro families, if he’d wanted. Chæla wasn’t noble
blood. She’d been a commoner, the daughter of a cloth seller.
For Torien it had clearly been love. You couldn’t say so much
for Chæla. By marrying Torien Risto she became not only the
most beautiful woman in the Empire but one of the most powerful, and
that would have been reason enough for any woman.
“Tell me about Choiro,” she said. “Tell me what
I’ve missed.”
He said, “Choiro hasn’t changed.”
She laughed, lightly. “You and your father. Too provincial.
You’re never going to get used to the city, are you?”
“Probably not,” he said. He tried to sound careless. “But
I wasn’t in the city much—the city itself. They kept us
out at Vione for most of it.”
“You did see Michane from time to time, I hope?”
“A few times.”
“I hear she’s quite the beauty now.”
He said, “Yes.”
His mother said, “Your father hopes to have the wedding before
the summer’s out.”
He said nothing. His tongue was tied, suddenly.
His mother was irritated by his silence. “I don’t know
why you have to act this way about it. The girl’s beautiful.
She might have been a sow. You might have been stuck with a fat sow
for a wife. You’ve no reason to act this way.”
