The dragons tooth, p.2
The Dragon's Tooth, page 2
If the Albanian population had been asked to name three men who should be content with their lot, it would have been these three: Chrosal, Duke of Lasgard, the King’s Adviser, and the second most powerful man in the country; Albrecht, the newly appointed Arch-Priest of Albany; and most fortunate of all, Tiernan III, King of Albany and Emperor of the Southern Lands. Whether the Southern Lands would have recognised the accuracy of the last title was academic, but it was intended to warn the other northern countries that Albany saw the Southern Continent as its exclusive trading partner.
The three were meeting in the State Chamber high in the main building of Lasgard Castle, which sat on a hill overlooking the capital of Albany. The Chamber was hung with tapestries showing the great military triumphs of Lasgard and Albany. A log fire burned at one end of the room, but did nothing to lift the chill. The room looked westward over the Speidhon River, so even the morning sun was unable to add any brightness to the occasion, which was Albrecht’s first meeting with the King.
In line with protocol, the other two let Tiernan sit down first at the long table. He did so unsteadily, at which point Chrosal gave Albrecht a wry smile. Albrecht was unsure why. He’d heard the King was not in the best of health, but was unsure of the truth or cause of this rumour.
The King sat at the head of the long table, in a wooden chair with arms carved with oak leaves. He was pale in countenance, with thinning black hair, a wispy beard, and a large belly. Albrecht soon realised that the King’s red bulbous nose, unhealthy complexion and the glass of wine he clutched were not unrelated.
“So, Your Eminence”, Tiernan said in a slurred voice to the cleric, “you come as the mouthpiece of our new Grunwaltian High-Priest. What has he to say to us?”
Albrecht was tall and strongly built, and possessed a face whose lines were indicative of character rather than age. His nose was aquiline, and his ears were pressed tight to his head. His hair was jet black, streaked with silver. But what struck anyone meeting Albrecht for the first time were his eyes, cold and blue, that seemed to penetrate into their soul, seeking out dark secrets and weaknesses. Few tried to lie to Albrecht, and fewer still succeeded.
The High Priest Gustav and he were dedicated to Oden, both believers in the creed that man was placed in Arnwin to worship their God and no others, and to follow His Word and Commandments to the letter. Since he was a young man, he’d been certain that he was chosen by the Deity to serve a special purpose.
“Your Majesty must know that when Oden makes a man High-Priest, that man’s loyalty is to Oden and all Arnwin” replied Albrecht, in a cold deep voice infused with authority. “The High-Priest is reborn in his devotion to our Lord. Not that my master has ever shown any bias to the nation of his birth.”
Chrosal sat across from Albrecht. Though bulky in build, he looked like a man who took regular exercise. As Duke of Lasgard, his sole duty was to advise the King, to whom it was often remarked he bore some resemblance, albeit without the signs of excessive drinking.
“Indeed, Your Eminence. We are fully aware of the ways of Cantivalè”, said Chrosal in a way that weaved sarcasm into every syllable.
Albrecht nodded politely. Tiernan and his ancestors of the Merlyan Dynasty ruled Cantivalè for almost 750 years before the Grunwaltian Herlich arranged an alliance with the ruling Sidhe and seized power in the year known as B.10... B.10 in Herlich’s calendar. Somewhere in the Castle a Merlyan diary would record the current year as 1985, he was certain. 1985 in the old calendar, based on the birth of the Chryst. Albrecht suspected that no matter how often the Merlyans pledged their allegiance to his Chrysteon master, deep down they believed that Cantivalè was their birthright. And he also knew the reason for Chrosal’s passing resemblance to the King.
“Your family’s concern for the well being of our Church is legendary” said Albrecht in a tone that mirrored Chrosal’s. “I speak of course to your Majesty.”
Tiernan bowed his head. “Please reassure your Master.... our thoughts are always with him.”
Albrecht smiled, or his mouth did. His eyes betrayed him. “It will be my honour, your Majesty. “
Tiernan spoke again. “And please also convey our continued congratulations and best wishes to the Priest of the Archive. His service to Albany will never be forgotten.”
Albrecht had only met Lachlan of Smithton once, at the Congregation, the meeting held every three years in Cantivalè. Lachlan, his predecessor as Arch-Priest of Albany, summoned to Cantivalè by the new High-Priest, without doubt on the basis that one should keep one’s friends close, but one’s enemies even closer. “Lachlan may have got too close to the Merlyans”, Gustav had warned. “Do not be led into their web”. Advice from the High-Priest was best heeded, and Albrecht already realised it was right.
“Lachlan will make an excellent Priest of the Archive” said Albrecht. “Who knows, the proximity to all the truths of our faith may lead him to even greater things.”
He decided to change the subject. Glancing quickly at Chrosal, he continued. “I will of course be happy to hear your Majesty’s confession, but it must be in private as decreed by Oden.”
“You should know that a man cannot covet, steal, or dishonour that which is his by right, so the King of Albany cannot sin” snapped Tiernan. “You will therefore hear no confession from me.”
Chrosal smiled at Albrecht, stood up and walked to the window, gazing out past the Black Tower towards the mouth of the Speidhon. Small sailing vessels were already making their way to destinations along the coast. Nearer to shore, a rowing team were practising for some upcoming race. He could just make out the cries of their leader through the thin glass window. The other bank was obscured by mist. Chrosal’s thoughts extended hundreds of miles beyond that.
“Your Eminence”, said Chrosal, “our immediate problem is with our neighbours to the west. And of course, that might lead to greater ones with those on the east. We would welcome the Church’s view on how we might proceed.”
“Cantivalè does not wish to see its children at war”, said Albrecht. “I thought that the Treaty of Smithton ended the unfortunate hostilities between yourselves and Morgenley.”
“Vermin!” shouted Tiernan, spraying the table with spit. “We thought just that. But now the Lords of Uldar are getting greedy. They want more for their iron. They are suggesting an auction for the mining rights, and we fear Morgenley will use that to seize what is ours!”
“Or even Grunwalt” interrupted Chrosal. “If they gained rights over iron in Uldar, Oden help us all.”
Albrecht, a son of Grunwalt himself, was not sympathetic. Iron was a valuable commodity in Arnwin. Farming and forestry needed it, but the armies of the three major nations needed it even more. The Sidhe could use poison and dragons to fight their battles, but the men of the Albese nations required steel. Grunwalt owned unrestricted access to ore in the island of Inselost, but Albany and Morgenley relied on their agreements with the Lords of Uldar to mine the iron-rich rocks on that southern island.
“You seem to have two choices” said the Arch-Priest. “Peace or war. Together, Morgenley and Albany could easily dissuade the Lords from trying to break their pledges. Apart....”
“King Artur is jealous of us”, spluttered Tiernan. “He resents our culture, our sophistication, our aspiration to the artistic ways of modern life. The man is uncouth. He should be hewing wood in some remote forest, not masquerading as a king.”
“The King is an old man” said Albrecht, whose view was that Tiernan’s definitions of sophistication and art were synonymous with decadence. Art to him was nothing more than perverted idol worship. “An heir might take a different view. Perhaps patience is the best policy for now.”
“An heir!” shouted Tiernan. “He has but one child left, sired in his dotage, and no doubt raised to follow his uncivilised ways. And a girl as well! No doubt promised to some Duke from a remote province where they live like pigs.” He drained his glass, and screamed for more wine. A door at the far end of the Chamber opened and a servant ran in clutching a golden flagon.
“Nevertheless”, responded Albrecht, “she is a future Queen. We should find out more of what is in her heart, and perhaps plant a seed of love for Albany and the Church in her young bosom.”
Tiernan’s pale complexion vanished, replaced by a share of red that matched his nose. “A Queen! A bloody Queen! A land run by women for women, that’s Morgenley. By Oden’s beard, I’ll give them Queens. War, my fine priest, war is what they’ll get if they mess with me!” His complexion was now approaching the colour of the wine that flowed from the flagon to his goblet.
Albrecht bowed. “Your Majesty’s wisdom is plain to see. Cantivalè shares your concern over their policy of succession. You might perhaps however remember that this fine city was once ruled by a Queen, and her blood runs in your veins.”
Tiernan banged his goblet on the table, so hard it left an indentation in the oak. Wine splashed across the surface. “Priest, do not lecture me on the House of Merlyn. Eliese was not Queen of Albany, and she... Chrosal... what did she swiving well do? Something swiving stupid”
Chrosal moved some papers so the small stream of wine flowing across the table did not reach them. “I believe, your Majesty, she conquered Uldar but in doing so relinquished control of your land in the north to the rebels.”
“And”, added Albrecht, “I believe she gave birth to the first King called Tiernan. You would not deem that a mistake, would you?”
Tiernan grunted, an angry grunt, like a pig being dragged from its trough. “War!”, he exploded again, the goblet making another dent on the table, and spilling more of his drink. “War! Give Artur what he deserves. Then bloody Grunwalt! And damn the damn Lords of... of... damn, Ul...”
“Uldar” said Chrosal.
“Go!” screamed Tiernan. “Get out! Chrosal, Get me generals!”
Albrecht bowed. “As you wish, your Majesty. I have been honoured to meet you.” He turned and began to walk out of the room. Chrosal bowed to the King and left with Albrecht. After they had closed the door behind them, Albrecht turned to Chrosal.
“Lord Duke...” the Arch-Priest started to say.
Chrosal held up a hand. “Your Eminence may want an explanation of what he has seen and heard. My master suffers from an illness, that is all. The juice of the grape affects him badly. He will sleep soon, and no gathering of generals will be necessary. When he wakes his wisdom will be restored and he will see the folly of an attack on our neighbours.”
“I must say I have never seen a man change so suddenly. Is what we saw today a common occurrence?”
Chrosal laughed. “Fortunately not. I believe today marks the delivery of the new season’s wines from Uldar. My master is traditionally the first to sample the year’s harvest, and as in all things, his vigour and enthusiasm cannot be constrained.”
“I would think such an occasion might be best left till evening, when the important matters of state have been resolved.”
Chrosal put his arm round Albrecht’s shoulders, ignoring the latter’s involuntary shudder. “The tasting of the new wine is a truly important matter of state, for it is one only the King can do. Little matters like Morgenley can be left to those like ourselves. And your predecessor has already suggested a solution that will not just resolve this little crisis but bring even greater glory to the House of Merlyn.”
Albrecht felt uncomfortable in the other’s embrace, as he did with any physical contact with either sex. “I have heard many great tales of your loyalty to the House of Merlyn” said the Arch-Priest, momentarily thinking of other, darker, rumours he’d heard of the Duke . “I pray that it does not detract from your acting in the best interests of your god and country.”
“Your Eminence” said Chrosal in a soft voice. “Please let me address what I know you must be thinking. I believe you know I am the King’s half-brother, my father being Kenet, Prince of Albany, my mother, Oden bless her soul, being the Countess of Porthlast. “
“And previously an under-maid in your father’s castle” said Albrecht.
Chrosal’s arm snapped away from Albrecht’s shoulders. “You, Arch-Priest, should know better than to insult the dead. My mother was a fine woman, and her title a just reward for her dignity.”
Kenet made no secret of his affair, and recognised his two sons as equals. He persuaded his brother, King Alftad V, to ennoble his mistress to ensure Chrosal could have a comfortable life.
Chrosal’s expression changed in an instance, the scowl replaced by a smile. “My apologies, Your Eminence. I realise my conception may have been condemned by the tenth commandment, but surely you must grant the supremacy of the fifth.” The tenth Chrysteon commandment concerned adultery, the fifth respect for parents. “My brother and I have sought to ensure Oden’s forgiveness for our father, by faithfully fulfilling the responsibilities our positions force on us.”
Albrecht looked at Chrosal. The man who, had convention recognised love above marriage, would now be the King of Albany. And, he reflected, who in practice was the one who carried out that role. And a man of whom dark stories were told of unspeakable desires...
“I feel I should offer you the apology, Lord Chrosal” said Albrecht. “Your father acted with dignity faced with the situation. Would that his support for you be copied by every man who fathers a child outside the true blessing of marriage.”
Albrecht left the palace later that day a far wiser man. Offspring of a weak father and an adulterous mother, he’d clung to the Church like a spiritual lifebelt all his life. Its commandments were his moral code, and he tolerated no deviation. His visible devotion to Oden got him noticed; his consequent obedience to his superiors oiled the tracks of his progress up the hierarchy. But now, as Arch-Priest, politics was unavoidable. He would not compromise his principles, but he might have to be more pragmatic when the machinations of the powerful created inevitable moral dilemmas.
He knew now that no matter how weak a ruler Tiernan was, the ambition and cunning of the Merlyans was as strong as ever. His faith, his belief in the absolute authority of the Church, his refusal to recognise any obligations of his own nationality, all would be tested.
He knew that what he thought was his greatest triumph up to now, his appointment to the Arch-Priestship of Albany, might instead prove to be the tenure from Hell.
Chapter 4, Strathdu, Sixth Day of Breith, 709
Owain was approaching his sixteenth birthday. For the last three years he endured a regime that required his attendance at school for twelve hours a day. While his peers were out in the fields or the forests, learning their future careers, Owain was learning about reading and writing, skills that he would never use, pointless facts on Albanian history, and memorising the names of distant islands that he would never visit.
Grant made it plain, for reasons unspoken, that he would never take Owain on as an apprentice, but Owain still felt in his heart that he was destined to be a hunter. His mother, Fionh, was anxious that he continued his studies. Father Olave was her protector in the village. Owain knew she’d no real friends, although women came to buy the clothes she made in their small cottage, and the people treated her with cool politeness. Owain also knew his mother was ill, although she’d never told him. Recently she found it difficult to see the stitching she’d made, and her hearing was failing. She was not an old woman, and Owain was concerned.
The one aspect of school that Owain enjoyed was combat training. For a priest, Father Olave was a competent fighter and he taught his skills to all pupils, but particularly to Owain. Wooden swords and wooden knives were given to the other boys, but Owain was often honoured with being allowed to use an iron sword. The priest would attack with a blunt wooden one and Owain had to defend. The priest also taught the boy the basics of unarmed combat. Some of his fellow pupils were cynical of the reasons for Father Olave’s insistence on giving Owain extra lessons, citing the gossip that priests in other villages had been known to take an unnatural interest in some of their charges. Owain merely assumed that the old man was acting in loco parentis, and ignored the taunts of his schoolmates.
It was the sixth day of Breith, the month when the rains of spring gave way to the warmth of summer. The day before was Sabboth, and all the village children had attended a service conducted by Father Olave, where he reminded them of the Chryst’s early life as a forester, a trade most of the boys were destined for. They were then sent back to their houses to contemplate their lives and how they could be more like the Chryst. This meant twenty long, tedious, repetitive hours of religion. The sixth day was always welcomed, even though it meant school.
Owain sat studying a map of the Southern Continent in the communal hut. It was chilly, but the aroma of last night’s smoke hung in the air. There had been a meeting, Owain knew. There were always meetings, the small affairs of insignificant men stretched and magnified; the location of the village dung-heap, the timing of the summer festival, each inflated with hot air to the status of a war between continents. Harbard would preside, contributing much towards each item whether he knew anything about it or not, the latter being the usual situation.
The morning’s lesson was mathematics; in particular the basics of trigonometry that would let a forester calculate the height of a tree. Owain’s attention was maintained, but not by the complexities of squares and triangles, but by one of his fellow pupils. Màiri was the daughter of Alsdair, son of Dougal, which meant she belonged to the most important farming family in Strathdu. She was a pretty girl, red-haired, with striking blue eyes, which often held Owain’s more than was necessary. At sixteen, the young people of Strathdu could begin courting, with the expectation that some might be married on the girl’s eighteenth birthday. The festival of Beltainn, with its traditional dances, was often the time when such romances began. Màiri had turned sixteen on the twenty-seventh day of Dadmer, the previous month, and Owain knew she’d taken part in the old rituals. Her adult life had therefore begun. He was still, in the eyes of the village, a child.
