Pirate and King, chapter eleven

11

I never asked for any of this. To be clear, Fate has always lashed me with one hand and dangled a lure with the other. I am wealthy and famous now beyond dreams of avarice, perfectly content with the role of Prince Consort. Nothing more pressing to do than father a new generation of heroes and remain faithful. (The latter has always been difficult.)

Who cares? Who will read this tale or accept what I’ve written, if they do? Most likely no one, which gives me a certain amount of confidence. I will set matters down as I have experienced them. Believe these words or call me a liar, as you will. The world has changed, and I was there for all of it.

Our branch of the Valinor family was a little-known cadet spur that distinguished itself in the Battle of Seven Hills. My father, Herron Valinor ob Vesendorin, saved His Majesty’s life by intercepting a rampaging orc berserker. Leaping into that monster’s path nearly cost him his sword arm, which absorbed a blow so mighty that it shattered the bones inside to powder. My father’s arm was torn halfway loose, but not before he skewered the orc like a prawn. There is an image on the north wall of Starloft’s council chamber. Quite lurid, but mostly factual. It really was that bloody.

Herron’s life was saved by the emperor’s honor guards, and his wounds tended by the court healer. Upon recovery, father was awarded an estate in Karellon, and the right to take a new name: Tarandahl.

(I emphasize Tarandahl, “Sky-watcher”. Not Tarandel, griffin-seed. Mispronounce that syllable and find out what happens.)

Naturally, a fresh new house, just created and owing everything it has to the crown, is ripe for manipulation and schemes. A piece newly dropped on the gameboard, shaped like a rampant and screaming griffin. My parents soon found themselves at the center of court politics, nearly drowned by that poisonous mire.

I was young enough to adapt. Foolish enough to accept what seemed like an honor, at the time. I didn’t see the web that came with the gift, until it was too late to back out. But perhaps I ought to explain myself better.

I have always preferred mortal females. There is something sweet and lovely, flower-like, in their brief, fragile youth. Despite what you may have heard of me, I have only twice fallen in love. Once, as a stupid and callow boy, to a chambermaid in my parents’ estate. I had rank, wealth and power enough to do whatever I pleased, so I did. Nearly two years passed (quite pleasantly) before I accepted that she was more than just a diversion; that I’d fallen in love. Her name was Kira Larsen, which means nothing at all important, but she was beautiful, and I treasured her. Eventually, she came to call me by my name, ‘Galadin’, instead of ‘My Lord’.

They don’t last very long, mortals. My parents looked the other way when I installed Kira in the guest room of my suite. We had children, one of whom is the chief city guard, Kevan feen Tarandahl, my oldest son. I will not be sentimental here, but perhaps you’ve had a new baby grasp your finger in its blind, waving fist? Just so.

Kevan lives, and through him, his mother. Kira aged, despite all that love and magic could do to prevent it. When silver began to appear in her golden hair… when the first lines creased that beautiful face, while I stayed the same… she walked through the street, directly into the path of a rushing wagon. It killed her instantly. I plunged into mourning, for I was yet a stripling and deeply in love.

To distract me, father and mum sent me away to join the Imperial Honor Guard. I didn’t protest. It was something to do, and I have always been a good fighter. Not very attentive at first, I soon pulled myself together and entered the rollicking life of the guards. There were only a few rules. Never back down. Defend His Majesty at all costs. Do not enter a relationship with a fellow guard.

There were scores of us, back then. Three at least from each noble family, except for the Tarandahls, who were too new to have many heirs. I made up for that by drinking, fighting and gambling enough for twenty. The other guards helped. We must have consumed an ocean between us and fathered (or mothered) a horde of feens. I am still in touch with many of those, and with my former guard friends.

Forty-two years after Kira’s death, I fell in love again. This time, with a merchant’s daughter named Lana Clothier. Another mortal in a parade of them, Lana had dark hair and wide, shining grey eyes. Valerian has such eyes. It is impossible that Lana’s blood could have passed to one of my official descendants, but maybe some of her spirit has. Who knows what becomes of a mortal love, after death… and I’m getting ahead of myself again.

I went to her father’s shop seeking cloth for a weatherproof travelling cloak. Needing time to think, because I had just left an audience with the Grand Council and my father.

I was still a child when the original Price Ascendant was exiled for crimes against the realm and His Majesty. I have no recollection of Alexion prior to his banishment, but it seems that being robbed of name, speech and magic didn’t kill that ferocious old badger. He not only lived but sired a child. That was the rumor, at least, for a beautiful, half-divine baby had been found at the doors of the Temple of Oberyn, surrounded by flowers and clutching a royal signet ring. The child was accepted into the Temple and the matter was hushed up for nearly a hundred years.

But now, that child was old enough to leave her service to Oberyn. She was about to be released with the usual handmaid’s dowry, free to whoever was present to claim her. It would not be right for an imperial by-blow to be seized by some common merchant or beggar. So, that’s what the council bade me to do, cutting any gutter-scum off and getting to this ‘Alyanara’ first.

An imperial bride. An imperial embarrassment. I was to wed Alyanara, then be sent off to carve a realm out of the wilderness north of Alandriel. And if that wasn’t a brick wrapped in silk, I don’t know what it was. Certainly, more of a sentence than any good fortune.

I was young enough to be both repelled and excited. I didn’t think myself ready for a wife, but Fate has her ways, and they are not ours. After the audience, when Grand Chancellor Kalistiel gave us leave to go, and the guards shut those great mithral doors behind us, father turned to me and said,

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Well, my boy, it seems that you’ve just been advanced on the gameboard. This may be a marvelous chance… but be wary. Imperial gifts never come without venom and thorns.”

To which I replied,

“Yes, Sir. I’ll do my best.” (Or something equally vacuous. I said I could fight, not speechify.)

We parted outside of the palace walls. My father, to break the news to mum. Me, to resign from the Imperial Honor Guard. That’s what I meant to do… only I ended up in the market quarter instead, looking for trouble. Found Lana, quite by accident.

She blushed and stammered when I entered the clothier’s shop, whispering,

“Greetings, Lord. What will you have, of our humble wares?”

Well, I was going to be taking a very long journey soon, wasn’t I? And her father was a greedy, obsequious man. If it hadn’t been me, he’d have given his daughter to somebody else, trading her beauty for some trifling advantage in commerce. So…

“There is but one thing of value in this place,” I responded, coming forward.

She trembled and clung to her mother when the transaction was managed, but I swear that I treated my Lana well. That I never forced my attention upon her. That I came to love her as much as I had Kira. I swear to all that, and I miss her terribly, still.

Anyhow, the matter was quickly settled. Lana was to be delivered to my quarters in the Guard Station, while I commissioned three sets of travelling clothes: warm, light and able to blend with the background. Some for Lana, as well, for I’d read all the epics, and I knew the value of concealment. That gear saved our lives more than once.

A candle-mark later, I was back outside and feeling lucky. Just beyond the clothier’s shop, directly across from the Saucy Wench tavern, a tiefling child was offering puppies. Little fluff-balls, they were, with blue eyes and spots. Part warg, the child swore, touching right hand to her spiraling left horn and bowing.

“My oath, Lord! A young warg jumped the enclosure and covered our Vixen. She were very long a-carryin’ the pups, Lord, and surely, they’re magical!”

Cheeky lass, and likely a liar as well, but she held out one of the puppies… black and white… and the tiny mutt warbled something akin to a challenge howl. I paid the tiefling’s extortionate price, gaining Skipper the same day as I did Lana. Ended up putting them in charge of each other, which gave them both something to do.

There were other details… one does not caravan north and into the wilderness without supplies and an army… but time flew by quickly, and my family’s agents dealt with most of the purchases.

Two things stand out in memory: the Sword of the Tarandahls, which my father handed into my possession… and Alyanara, my wife. I think father was pleased to be rid of the blade, which is sentient. At any rate, he was smiling when he presented me with the sword and its scabbard.

“Wield it in honor, Son,” said Herron, as we stepped out of our carriage near the Temple of Oberyn. My father was a tall and broad-shouldered warrior, more given to laughter than wrath. Like mine, his hair was silver, but his eyes were deep black, without visible pupils. “Keep faith with your blade and with Firelord, and neither will ever fail you.”

Truthfully, I had been hoping for something fancier (and less talkative). The S o T was a loutish weapon; an enchanted steel hand-and-a-half blade with little ornamentation. It was also unbalanced at first, as we hadn’t attuned, and it didn’t think much of me. Nevertheless, I bowed and tried to look grateful.

“Thank you, Sir,” I said, fastening the sheathed sword at my waist. “It is a lordly gift, and I shall cherish it.”

‘Liar,’ snapped the S o T, in my head. ‘You’d rather have a fencing needle covered in gems than an honest broadsword.’

“I’d rather have one that was silent,” I shot back, aloud.

Father turned away to hide a grin, the whoreson. Mum looked sympathetic, though. She patted my arm and changed the subject, a tactic at which she excelled. My mother was pretty, rather than beautiful. She came of no great lineage, with opaline eyes, wavy hair and a faint dusting of freckles on honey-warm skin. Marta Not-from-Here, before she married my father. Full of advice and encouragement, mum said,

“There now, Galad. I’m sure that the two of you will be fast friends in no time. Oil and whetstones and a comfortable scabbard. That’s what keeps a warrior and sword in good humor with each other.”

By that time, we’d neared the temple gates, and I was beginning to feel nervous. I was about to acquire a wife that I didn’t know and didn’t want. Those doubts must have shown on my face, for mum tried to soothe me with,

“She’s been a temple child all her life, Galad. A handmaid of the Dawn. She will probably seem very shy, or else be as wild as a brushfire.”

I hoped for the second, but didn’t say so. Just kissed mum’s cheek. There was no time to express my concerns or to speak of Lana, whom I hadn’t won over yet. No time for anything else but to meet my new life-mate.

The town guards had cleared the temple square of everyone else but my parents and I. Our coach and servants waited where Broad Street enters the plaza, shining Tarandahl red and gold in the afternoon light.

Maybe you’ve been there? The temple square is beautiful. Paved in gems and white marble, with an oracular fountain at its center, it is one of the grandest sights in Karellon. My steps dragged as we approached the tall gates, which were patterned with golden sunbursts and dragons. Father had to prod me in the back to keep me moving forward.

At first nothing happened. All was still, and I hoped that, after all, someone else had been found to take the girl hence. Then the tower bell rang. Three pure, climbing notes. The Song of Coming Forth. Next, the girl was ejected, not grandly at all. Rather than open the full gates… which are flung wide only twice a year, on the Shortest and Longest Day… a small door was unbarred on the temple wall. A slim figure stepped forth, wrapped in a dark cloak and clutching a bundle. Alyanara, child of the gods.

No one had told her what to expect, or that there would be someone to meet her and claim Oberyn’s dowry. She looked more nervous than Lana had. Her hooded cloak hid that now-famous red-golden hair, and shadowed her violet eyes, but it could not dim her demi-god beauty. As I have said, I am drawn to the brief light of mortals, and Aly was anything but ephemeral. A bonfire, compared to a candle-flame.

Mum nudged me. That wretched sword started humming a funeral dirge in my thoughts. I wanted to turn and bolt from the square, but I straightened my shoulders and raised my head. Everyone else had done their part. Now it was time to do mine. Clearing my throat, I went over to greet and claim Alyanara, the Imperial Problem. My mouth was dry and my heart thudding as I bowed to her.

“My lady,” I said, straightening once more. She shrank back against that banded wood door, but the priests had shut it behind her. I carried on speaking, because it was less awkward than mutual silence. “I am Galadin Tarandahl ob Herron. Before all the gods and powers, I claim your dowry and hand for my own.”

She blinked. Tried for a smile, but it didn’t quite reach those wide, anxious eyes. She peered up from under her hood, searching my face for reassurance I couldn’t provide. There were tears in her eyes, but her voice didn’t shake.

“My lord,” she said faintly, “I am your good and loyal servant. In Oberyn’s name, My Lord, be kind to your handmaid.”

Alyanara handed over her bundle, then. It turned out to contain five hundred gold coins, a statue of Oberyn slaying Epophis (which is now on the west drawing room mantlepiece) and some of her childhood possessions.

And just like that, I had a wife.