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Keaen

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by Till Noever

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Keaen A Novel by Till Noever Chapter 1 When Armist entered the cavernous Salle of Ancestors he did so with trepidation and the knowledge that time was running out. He knew why his father had summoned him here, and the knowledge was neither pleasant nor comforting. The high, vaulted ceiling loomed above. Massive, age-darkened tika beams arched into a peaked dome, their outlines merging in the gloom with those of the slabs of stone they supported: uncontaminated by the light of day; shrouded in darkness since the day the last stone of Wherol Tower had been put into place many centuries ago. In this inner sanctum of Keaenean tradition daylight was an intruder. The images of the former Keaens, arrayed in two parallel rows along the curved walls, would have resented its presence. Instead, a dozen oil lanterns hung on the walls. The light from their flames caressed the paintings, some of which seemed to come alive under the touch, to move and twitch, and look this way and that, apparently not content with having had their time of glory and power, but keen to intrude upon the lives of those who succeeded them. Armist took another step into the salle. As always, it seemed to enfold him like an enormous stone womb, oppressive and claustrophobic. His ancestors, distant though they might be, glared down at him from their lofty positions on the wall with disapproval, as if they knew what was going on in his mind-and though he was a man now, not a boy they could cower into submission with their glowering, he still felt their reproach and silent accusation. The desire to leave this place-not just this room but the castle and all it represented-was almost overpowering. He took a deep breath and stepped closer to the colossal round table which defined the center of the salle, hoping to find somebody sitting in one of the twelve ornate, high-backed chairs which surrounded it. Surely, Tahlia would be here by now. She was never late. Soft footsteps; a rustle of skirts on the stone floor behind him. Armist turned toward the sound. How could he even think of leaving? His sister smiled at him and, with that smile, transformed the salle into a thing of beauty. She stepped nearer. “I’m so glad to see you!” she whispered breathlessly. “What do you think he wants from us?” Armist took her hands in his and pulled her closer toward the table and the center of the salle. In Castle Keaen, private conversations were always held as far away from the walls as possible, even in the Salle of Ancestors. Armist knew of at least three listening holes concealed behind the upper row of portraits. Tahlia followed him, her face anxious and troubled. Armist brought his mouth closer to her ear. “We both know. The Festival is in three weeks. You are eighteen and your time has arrived. I am twenty five-long overdue for the fael...” “Armist, I don’t want this to happen!” He squeezed her hands. They were cold. He resisted an urge to enfold her in his arms and comfort her. No matter how much he wanted to do so, such a gesture was not advisable at this time and in this place, where they could be interrupted at any moment and where unseen eyes might even now be following their every move. A public demonstration of the deep affection between them would result in severe censure. It might have been acceptable five years ago, and then only just, but not any more. Their attachment would be considered tainted with certain highly disapproved-of undertones. “I wonder what expediency dictates,” Tahlia said softly and bitterly. Her hands fell away from his. “Who will it be? Lydd? Ilkred? Tegel? Kiefer?” Her voice was sad and resigned. A flash of anger surged through him. How could they do this to her? “Damn the Covenant!” he hissed. “Damn it all!” Despite her disenchantment with her fate, she felt compelled to enunciate the official line. “The Covenant keeps the peace. Without it Keaen would disintegrate.” Armist turned away from her to stare at the ancestral images along the walls. Whatever he was searching for continued to elude him. A semblance of himself or Tahlia maybe; an inclination of the head, a look in the eyes, a quirky expression of the mouth. Something telling him that he was indeed one of the long lineage of Keaens. But he beheld only the baleful stares of strangers, even more remote from him than his own father. Nothing to elicit resonance or sympathy; nothing to make him feel a part of this grand tradition spanning more than seven hundred years. Armist sighed and turned back to Tahlia. “The price for peace is too high,” he snapped. “At least for us!” Tahlia appeared troubled, but continued-stubbornly and irrationally, he thought-to defend their place in the great scheme of things. “We are instruments of the Covenant, whether we like it or not.” He sniffed derisively. “So? And what of our own needs and desires? I can’t recall having been asked for my opinion in this matter-and I very much doubt that you have.” She put a hand on his arm. “They didn’t have to ask-and we implied our consent years ago by accepting the privileges of our rank. It seems wrong to shirk our responsibilities now.” Armist felt the warmth of her hand through the fabric of his sleeve. “Years ago we were children,” he said angrily. “How could we possibly have made such momentous decisions? All we knew was what they taught us! Besides, who ever asked us anything? Who asked our mothers if they wanted to be impregnated by our father? Do you really think they could have refused him?” She looked at him; the lanterns on the walls reflected as pinpoints of light from her gray, blue-tinged eyes. Her soft, dark curls accentuated the fine contours of her face, which was troubled and uncertain. Maybe there was even a trace of despair. He knew that, despite her earlier defense of the Covenant, she was as reluctant as he to yield to the inevitable. He also knew that he had none of her excuses for inaction. She had lived a very sheltered life, confined, for the most part, to the castle. Outings or contacts with anything that might introduce ‘improper’ elements into her life were decorous affairs, carefully screened and watched over by the self-appointed guardians of propriety such as Lady Teinan. Despite this, Tahlia’s rebellious streak had prevented her from submitting completely to the doctrines of the Covenant. She had sought out Pandrak’s and Caitlan’s tutelage; and they had given it as willingly to her as to her brother-despite general disapproval from the conservative elements at court. Fortunately, it had never been contentious enough to occasion the Keaen to officially forbid such activity. Instead, it was probably a source of amusement to Hain that the Flower of Keaen should learn the arcana of mathematics or how to wield a rapier. It was a novel notion, to be sure, but it must have appeared harmless enough. Not so harmless. The teaching had prevented Tahlia from completely submitting to the official doctrine. Not enough to incite open rebellion, perhaps, but sufficient to allow her to retain a sense of perspective. Armist, in contrast to his sister, had been exposed to life outside the castle at some length. He had traveled to Cedrea on several occasions, and made many clandestine forays into Keaen City, usually in the company of his friend, Juiles. Life, as he well knew, had many different faces, and the view from his lofty position as the Young Keaen was only one of many. Over the years, that knowledge had contributed greatly to his own disenchantment and the doubts that continued to nag at him. And what had he done about it? He had known that this day was coming and done far too little to prepare for it, much less considered any serious decision regarding the matter. He simply had not known what to do. Still did not know-even now, when the fate of his sister was about to be decided, and time was running out for both of them. Going someplace beyond the reach of the Keaen and everything he stood for: that was all he could think of. But how could he do that and leave her here? He was responsible for her. There was nobody else. Indeed, he told himself, Tahlia was the only reason he had not absconded years ago; why he suppressed the ever-nagging question about his mother’s fate, and succumbed to the rituals of the court, when everything in him screamed for release. “I wish...” The sound of muted voices grew louder as approaching footsteps echoed into the salle. The words died in Armist’s throat. Tahlia let go of his arm. Hastily they stepped away from each other and turned toward the entrance. Hain the Keaen and his seneschal, Sir Fyrzig, entered the salle. Hain paused briefly, his gaze raking over his offspring. As always, Armist felt as if the layers protecting his privacy were being stripped away under that scrutiny. At the level of reason he knew this not to be true, but that did not help him to deal with the impact of his father’s overpowering personality, or with the force of Hain’s pale blue eyes, which, by a trick of the dim light of the salle, at this particular moment appeared almost black. Armist gave a precisely measured bow of his head, which, so he hoped, expressed sufficient deference without excessive submissiveness. Tahlia curtsied perfunctorily. Hain’s stocky, compact form approached them. Sir Fyrzig’s tall, gaunt frame followed with the precise, dignified gait of a stork. Hain stopped in front of his children and considered them for a few moments, his face devoid of any trace of warmth. He motioned to the table. “Sit.” They positioned themselves around the table according to protocol, with Hain in the place of honor, and Sir Fyrzig standing off to one side behind his ruler’s chair. On the opposite side of the table Armist pulled out the appropriate chair for his sister and waited until she had seated herself. Then he sat down adjacent to her. There was a moment’s silence as Hain studied them from across the expanse of bare tabletop. Again Armist felt himself stripped and exposed. He responded by putting on what he considered to be the blandest face possible. Under the table he felt a nudge at his leg where Tahlia’s foot was touching him for reassurance. Quite probably she felt even more uncomfortable than he did. “The Festival draws near,” Hain said, his face settling into the facade of the benevolent, but implacable, ruler; the same countenance which, Armist reflected, was also offered for public consideration. “This is the year of Tahlia’s maturation. Now she must submit to her destiny. I have selected one of the eligible barons as her husband-to-be. On Habaday, the magice shall pronounce the Binding-and thus confirm the bonds between the noblemen and the House of Keaen.” He placed his arms on the table, steepled his fingers, and considered Armist for a moment. “Tradition also dictates that, at the same time, the Young Keaen should undergo the fael. You have had to wait an inordinately long time to assume the privileges of your rank. That wait is now over. We will announce your maturity. Your blood will be drawn and burned. You will recite the oath of fealty, and be confirmed as my successor.” Hain’s voice took on an admonishing tone. “And it is fitting that after that time the emphasis of your training will shift toward more germane matters than sword-craft, languages, and the other arcane arts taught by our august magice. Affairs of state require your attention. It is time that you partook in them to a greater degree. Sir Fyrzig will do his best to introduce you to matters which you have so far neglected.” Sir Fyrzig, hearing his ruler pronounce those words, nodded with the air of a man who knew he had much wisdom to impart. Hain leaned back and studied Armist for a moment. “I appreciate that swordplay may be more to your liking than the apparently mundane matters associated with statecraft. But, as you will find soon enough, there will be much here to fascinate and involve you.” Armist bowed his head, using the opportunity to break eye contact with his father. When he looked up again Hain’s attention had shifted to Tahlia. “Am I to know who is to be my husband?” she asked, a trifle tartly. The tone did not escape Hain. A brief cloud of displeasure passed over his features before they settled back into their previous configuration. His voice became a trifle more crisp. “That is not appropriate. Nobody but myself knows. It will remain that way until the day of the festival, when I tell you whom to choose. This is as it should be, and this is how it will be.” Hain made as if to rise, then bethought himself. He gave Armist another moment of scrutiny. “I also expect that from now on you will consider more carefully the choice of your friends.” With that cryptic remark he rose and his offspring followed suit. “There is much to be prepared and little time to do it.” Hain nodded at Sir Fyrzig. “Ensure that everything necessary is done.” The seneschal bowed. “It shall be done, Sire.” “Good.” Hain, with a last brief nod at the two young people, turned and headed for the exit. Armist and Tahlia stood staring after him, until he and the seneschal had disappeared from sight. Armist took Tahlia’s arm. “Let’s go for a walk on the battlements.” She eyed him sideways. They turned down a passage and walked past a heavy oaken door covered with and fortified by an ornate wrought-iron framework. Two sentries armed with long swords and curved rectangular shields stood like frozen statues, one on either side. Armist cast a dark look in their direction. He remembered every single time that he had actually been allowed into the sacrosanct precinct of their father’s private quarters. A library, a workroom, and a bedroom. The center of power in this land. To think that one day these quarters would be his! That the men would be guarding his safety. That they would do whatever was necessary to ensure these quarters remained inaccessible to all but himself and the housemaid who, every day and under the watchful eyes of two members of the Keaen’s elite corps, cleaned the rooms and replaced the linen on the Keaen’s bed. Of course, when Armist finally took up residence here, different guards would stand in this corridor, staring unblinkingly at the masonry of the opposite wall. But, he thought, for all practical purposes it might as well be the same two men: well-trained, unquestioningly obedient. Armist shuddered and hastened Tahlia along. He did not want those quarters. Ever. He resumed breathing freely, without feeling there was a clamp around his chest, only when they gained the freedom of the battlements and the open air. A gentle breeze blew across from the Limpic Ocean. They stood in silence for a while, leaning on the balustrade, looking out across Keaen’s port and the sprawling city beyond: the harbor quarter with its taverns and pleasure-houses; encircled by the chaotic assembly of buildings and streets that was Tensel Close, where was conducted most of the city’s business and which housed the majority of the city’s populace. Beyond it the houses thinned to become farms, which spread over most of the Western Flatlands on the other side of Fingael Bay. To the south-west lay the waters of the distant Gulf of Skele, and-somewhere below the horizon, surrounded by the waters of the Limpic Ocean-the Isle of Skele and Nameless Keep, where the magices went to be trained. Armist glanced at Tahlia, who wistfully pondered the landscape. Caravella was slanting down toward the horizon. The sky slowly assumed a ruddy complexion, bathing the land in the bright glow of distant fire. Soon the sky would turn green and then pink and blue, before daylight finally surrendered dominion to the dark of night. “Armist, what are we going to do?” she whispered. “In a few weeks they’ll separate us forever. I will be sent off to some ghastly place in the provinces to live and share a bed with a man I’ve never met and whom I’ll probably hate.” She made a soft, fretful sound. “The thought of any of the barons becoming my husband is really too horrid to contemplate-still, contemplate it I must…” She turned and looked at him. Caravella’s light caught in her hair and framed her head in a halo of fire. Armist felt his throat tighten, not just because of his total impotence but because of his knowledge that any alternatives he might be able to offer would only bring her more grief than her predestined path. Still-was that really such a certainty? If only she did not feel so bound by her obligations... What could he possibly say to her to change her mind and make her see things from his perspective? Besides, there were other problems. “It happened again,” he said. She gasped softly. “When?” “Earlier today; when I was training with Caitlan.” Her eyes widened. “Did he notice?” Armist shook his head. “Nobody ever does.” He knew that it was a feint. He saw it coming and discerned the intention behind it. Yet his body’s reactions betrayed him. Caitlan’s blade, which only a moment ago had appeared committed to hitting his shoulder, now descended in a tight arc whose end point coincided with Armist’s wrist. Armist cringed because he could see the inevitable outcome. Whatever he did, it would be too late. There simply was no time to avert calamity. His body ignored his intellect’s judgement. Instinctive reflexes, which only a moment ago had forsaken him, now worked to counter the move. Armist’s rapier came around in a clockwise arc. Its tip touched the heavy blade as it swooped down. Metal touched metal with a sharp grating sound. In a contest between two such unequal weapons the wielder of the lighter one had to learn how to use the attacker’s inertia to deflect, rather than counter. Still, in this case the momentum of the weaponsmaster’s blade, supported by the strength of the individual behind it, would force his own aside. The best he could hope for was that it would land on his guard instead of his hand or wrist. Armist tensed until he felt that his muscles must surely snap-and braced himself for the impact. And then... The descending blade halted in mid-air. Caitlan froze. Armist stood transfixed. His rapier dropped away. The point came to rest on the floor. Now? It had never happened in a situation like this! Never when he actually needed it. The scene was getting familiar, after several similar incidents during the last few weeks. The world around him had congealed. And yet he could move-even breathe. Those objects he was touching, like the rapier, appeared unaffected, at least for as long as they were in physical contact with him. Armist opened his hand and let go of the rapier’s pommel. As expected, instead of dropping to the floor, it remained suspended in mid-air. He grasped it again, and it returned to its normal state. For a time he had thought that these fugues were fabrications of his imagination and that he must surely be going mad. One day, however, despite his terror, when the fugue came upon him he performed some tentative experiments. Move a chair. Empty a cup. Use a knife to cut a notch in a table. When everything had returned to normal-as abruptly as it had started-he found to his surprise that he had indeed done all those things. He performed another experiment, suspending a cup in mid-air above a table, then stood back, closed one eye and watched the cup very carefully against the background. It moved. With agonizing slowness-but it moved. Which meant that time had not frozen altogether, but was merely passing very slowly indeed. So, he wasn’t crazy! And that had frightened him even more. If this was real, the implications were terrifying. He desperately needed guidance, but found that Tahlia, his only confidante, was as frightened and helpless as he. Who else was left? Should he tell the magice? Was he willing to live with the consequences of being identified as one with ‘talent’? Caution said ‘no’, despite the fact that he considered the magice a friend. The discovery of a talent within himself might lead to even more strictures on his freedom. And then-maybe his greatest fear: that the magices of the Isle would come to know. There was no doubt in his mind: they would be very interested indeed in a man who could make time stand still. Armist studied the frozen Caitlan. It wouldn’t take much to displace the sword just enough so that, when everything reverted back to normal, it would give him an advantage, and maybe even allow a suitable riposte. If he twisted the wrist slightly, to change the angle of the weapon... Sadly, regretfully, he shook his head. It would not do. Not with Caitlan. The weaponsmaster would wonder; maybe ask questions which must not be asked. Armist heaved an inaudible sigh. He raised his blade and placed it back against Caitlan’s-though in a slightly more advantageous position, angling the rapier a little more favorably in order to give himself more leverage. He inspected his new position and found it as satisfactory an arrangement as he could hope to achieve. Then he relaxed and prepared himself to wait until the fugue passed... ...which it did almost immediately. The sword continued on its trajectory, was deflected by the rapier-which occasioned an astonished widening of the eyes behind the grid of the weaponsmaster’s mask-but still had enough momentum to smash on to Armist’s guard with brutal force. It slid off, traveled on to his wrist, and impacted with sufficient force to numb him and make the rapier drop from his momentarily paralyzed hand. Caitlan raised his weapon, stood back, and saluted the loser. “Well done! You’re still dead, but well done. That last parry was a very good example of how to turn a mistake into a fighting chance for success.” Armist, massaging his sore right wrist, grinned lopsidedly. “I don’t know quite what happened there.” Which was, he reflected, not too far off the truth. Caitlan shrugged negligently. “In combat something more fundamental than our perception is at work. The combatants seldom truly perceive what actually happens. They either know or they don’t.” “In this case it seems you didn’t,” Armist noted dryly. Caitlan laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Even I am not perfect.” He placed his weapon on a nearby ledge, took off his mask, and undid the protective shielding around his own hand and wrist. Armist followed suit. “Enough for today,” Caitlan said. “You might wish to see Pandrak about some of his special ointment. It’s said to do wonders for painful joints and muscles.” He grinned at Armist. Armist gingerly moved his right wrist. He grimaced with the pain. Caitlan looked at him. “Don’t feel inadequate. Duels involving unequal weapons are the most difficult. But you can’t rely on your enemy obliging you by choosing his weapon to suit your needs.” Again he clapped Armist on the shoulder. “You’re good at this, Armist of Keaen. You’ll defeat the vast majority of your opponents. But they don’t matter. It only takes one better than you to do you in.” Armist felt a brief surge of guilt when he thought of how he hadn’t really earned Caitlan’s last compliment. Without the strange time freeze to assist him he would have been in much more pain. To cover his unease, he smiled at his tutor and glanced at the ornate time-piece on the far wall of the training hall. “I have to go. My father wants to see me.” Caitlan nodded. “When the Keaen summons, one does not dally.” He made a negligent gesture and picked up the sword and an oil-soaked cloth. “We’ll continue this tomorrow at the same time.” Armist finished relating events in the salle. “That’s the third time in as many weeks,” Tahlia said anxiously. “Please be careful!” Armist nodded. “I intend to, but...” His voice trailed off. “But what?” He took her hands. “It can’t go on like this. Whatever is happening to me is a magice thing, and a magice may not become Keaen.” “It’s all working in your favor then,” Tahlia noted. “Tell Pandrak-who will investigate this in his usual methodical way. If you’re right he’ll inform Father-and you’ll be instantly relieved from all duty to the kingdom.” She shrugged sadly. “Unlike me, you’ll have a legitimate reason to extricate yourself from this whole affair.” Armist shook his head. “It’s not that simple.” She frowned. “Why not?” “No ‘talent’ Pandrak’s ever mentioned bears any resemblance to what I’m experiencing. So-what does that make me? A freak? A new kind of magice? What?” He shook his head. “Pandrak informing the Keaen isn’t what really concerns me. What I fear is that he’ll be obliged to tell the people of the Isle...” “Who might be able to help you!” Armist shook his head. “They’ll just take me away from here-and from you.” Tahlia glanced at him uncertainly. “Not if you don’t want to.” “Those with talent have no choice in such matters.” Tahlia sighed. “Oh Armist.” She hugged him. “What am I to do?” Her voice was muffled by his clothes. They stood in silence for a while, thinking their private thoughts. Finally, reluctantly, they separated. Armist looked out over the dark waters of Fingael Bay and the flatlands beyond. “I don’t want to undergo the fael,” he said darkly. “I don’t want to swear an oath of fealty which I have no intention of keeping. And I don’t want to be given official blessing to impregnate any female I want-all in the name of the Covenant. There’s nothing in this whole charade I want.” Tahlia touched his face. “You have to want something.” He took her arm and led her further along the battlement. They proceeded to walk slowly around the curvature of Tynwand Tower. “I want to be where I can make sure you’re safe. But I don’t want to be Keaen. I want nothing to do with this place-and I wouldn’t be here anymore, if it wasn’t for...” He fell silent, but she knew. How could she not? “I need to find out what’s happening to me.” Armist continued. “What it will mean for me. What it tells me about who I am. And there’s the matter of Mother, of course.” “But it’s been so long...” “I must know!” he insisted. “Why did she have to die? She didn’t kill herself. She wouldn’t have!” He looked across the bay where a tall-masted ship cleared Cape Tilfer and gained the freedom of the ocean. “I never knew her,” he said bleakly. “She’s not even a memory. Just an...inkling...of things lost. I wonder what she smelled like. What it was like to be nursed by her-before they took me away. Her touch. The sound of her voice...” Tahlia squeezed his arm and leaned her head against his shoulder. In silence they continued their circuit of the tower’s battlements and stopped again at the northern side. “What will you do?” she asked. Armist shrugged. Somewhere out there, beyond the rolling hills on the horizon, lay Cedrea, the place of his birth. “I want to leave-but you know I can’t.” “It would be terribly dangerous,” she said. “Father would be livid. Such a thing is unthinkable! It would humiliate him. He would search for you everywhere, and if he found you...” She swallowed. “He’d show you no mercy. Not only would you be disinherited, but you’d be punished as a traitor.” “It wouldn’t be much worse than what’s about to happen to me here. And to you!” “At least we’ll be alive.” “What kind of life will it be?” he retorted. “You in the bed of someone you dislike. The two of us separated forever; our lives ruled by etiquette, tradition, propriety. I’ll be groomed for ‘statecraft’.” “Our father thinks statecraft is important.” “Of course he does. I don’t. And neither do you. Nor do you want to be a baron’s play-thing; bearing him ten children; attending to him like a dutiful spouse; presiding over his household; and spending your time socializing with the other noble ladies.” Tahlia shook her head. “No.” Armist nodded. “You’ve spent far too much time with Pandrak and Caitlan-and not enough with Lady Fosgiel or Lady Teinan. Too much learning and not enough sewing of seams as Sir Fyrzig once commented.” He grinned. “You’ve exasperated a lot of people at court.” “How terrible,” she said dryly. “Nice, proper girls don’t learn how to wield weapons and throw knives.” “Caitlan has always liked me.” “He has.” “What are we going to do?” “I don’t know. And we have very little time left to figure it out.” Read the author biography

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