Liberation of Lystra

Robin Hardy Online

Book Three of the Annals of Lystra

From the back cover:
Secure on the throne of Lystra, Roman, the Chataine's former guardian, heeds a warning that a nearby ruler is amassing power to strike. Roman decides to answer the threat himself. But his willful wife Deirdre, now ruling beside him, persuades him to let her go with him. Leaving their young son in the care of a nursemaid, they travel to Corona to confront the supernatural evil growing there.

During their absence, a usurper attempts to seize power at West-ford, so Roman must attack his own capital to regain control. With each success, challenges multiply. The crisis point comes when all Lystra believes Roman is dead, and the fate of the province lies in the hands of a young teenage girl.

The Annals of Lystra begin with Chataine's Guardian, continue in Stone of Help, and conclude with Liberation of Lystra. The story then picks up 100 years later with Nicole of Prie Mer: Book One of the Latter Annals of Lystra.

CHAPTER ONE

Deirdre, Surchataine of Lystra, opened her eyes just enough to see scattered rays of golden light leaping from behind the velvet draperies. These early June mornings were so splendid. Smiling, she stretched and her forearm brushed the bare, muscled shoulder of her husband Roman.

She shifted to watch him sleep, admiring his brown, sinewy form. In lightly smoothing the thick black hair away from his face, she uncovered the old bludgeon scar on his forehead and several grey hairs. Then she grinned. Responding to an irrepressible urge, she draped her arm over his back and bit his nearest shoulder.

He roused with a start and gathered her beneath him to kiss her in retaliation. They were locked this way when a sly little giggle was heard. Roman raised his head to see two intensely blue eyes under a forelock of thick reddish-brown hair peeping over the edge of the bed.

"Rascal!" Roman exclaimed, leaning over to lift the giggling two-year-old onto Deirdre's stomach. "You climbed down from your bed again! How shall we contain you, little adventurer?"

Deirdre laughed, "He's his father's son! Still, I'm glad we moved him into the adjoining room. I like having him near us."

Roman lay back and smiled, watching his fair-haired wife cuddle and tickle the squealing child while the feather ticking shifted gently beneath them. "Deirdre," he mused, "how did you choose the name Ariel? I don't know that I have ever heard it before."

She held the child still and confessed, "You'll think it strange."

"Tell me."

"I had a dream . . . I saw a beautiful young man riding into battle, wearing your crest. . . . Someone said, 'His name is Ariel.' I decided that would be our son's name."

Roman watched her silently, and she grew self-conscious as she bounced the child on her leg. Then he leaned over and said, "Take him to the nursemaid for a while." Which she did.

Later in the morning, Roman trotted down the great curving stairway of the palace at Westford with the slender, grey-haired Counselor trailing him, striving to keep his balance on the stairs while thumbing through a sheaf of parchments. "Surchatain, the emissaries this morning are from the provinces of Qarqar, Calle Valley--and Polontis."

Surchatain Roman almost stopped in midstride at the mention of his mother's homeland. "Polontis? What is their request?"

The Counselor shuffled his papers, searching. "I am not certain. Only for an audience with you."

"They'll have that," Roman promised as he walked into the audience hall. A waiting crowd of spectators went to their knees in deference as he passed them. He nodded to Commander Nihl standing to the left of the bronze throne, then sat. Like Galapos before him, Roman eschewed the purple robes of a monarch, choosing to wear his plain brown soldier's uniform even on the throne.

He glanced at the empty air to his right and sighed. Obviously, his lectures to Deirdre on why she should sit at audience with him had not had any effect. Yet, knowing her temperament, he would not force her. That would only make her all the more impervious to learning how to rule.

To the first-time observer in the audience, Roman and Nihl might have appeared to be brothers, being so similar in aspect. They shared the common Polonti features of straight black hair, brown skin, and large frames. Yet Nihl was pure Polonti, markedly more reserved and taut than his half-blooded kinsman. Or perhaps it was because Roman was older and never a citizen of his mother's country that he did not hold quite so rigidly to their native manners.

The Surchatain said, "I will hear first the emissary from Polontis."

A grave-faced Polonti nudged his way up from the edge of the crowd and bowed low to Roman. "Surchatain, it is gracious of you to hear me first, as I am the least of these here. I am Coran, who brings greetings from Bruc, ruler of Polontis. Lord Bruc wishes to establish first that he holds no ill will for the number of Polonti warriors who have left his service to join yours."

"Then why have my messengers to him never been acknowledged?" Roman asked testily.

"An unfortunate misunderstanding, Surchatain, as my lord's former counselor gave him unwise advice concerning them," explained Coran. Roman leaned his head on his hand and looked at him. "He feared you wished to draw more men away," continued Coran, gaining speed, "and as our resources are already so depleted, a further loss would leave us indefensible."

"Against me?" Roman asked pointedly, then turned to whisper to Nihl, "Is this man really Polonti? He talks more like a Selecan statesman."

Nihl cocked his head. "Bruc sends his emissaries to the south to be educated before employing them--never to Seleca, though."

Roman turned his attention back to the messenger. "What does Bruc want?"

"To advise you of an impending crisis, Surchatain. Lord Bruc's spies have discovered evidence of an army growing in Corona--a large, savage army who have bound themselves with an oath never to rest until they have accomplished dead Tremaine's goal of conquering the Continent. They are sure to attack you when they feel they've gained might enough," the emissary warned.

Roman shifted on the throne. "I know the situation in Corona. They have a few hundred men gathered under a crazy demagogue who thinks he is Tremaine reincarnated. I won't waste my time or my men on him. He could not take an outpost from me, much less Westford." Nihl nodded in concord with this assessment.

Coran, thwarted in his first move, looked down at the purple runner. He responded humbly, "No, Surchatain, he cannot take Lystra. But he has set his eyes on Polontis as his first conquest, and we are not so secure."

"That is Bruc's problem," answered Roman, watching him.

"If we fall, he becomes that much stronger!" the messenger spilled out desperately. "Would you rather deal with him when he has a few men and delusions, or when he comes marching to you with the rest of the Continent in his hand?"

"He cannot conquer the Continent," Roman reiterated quietly.

Coran bit his lip as if choking back pride. "Perhaps not. But he could take Polontis. Help us, Surchatain. I beg you to help us."

Roman sat silently evaluating him and his request. The hall was so quiet he could hear Coran's tense breathing. "I will consider it," Roman finally said. Coran bowed in relief at having brought his case this far.

"Kam," Roman gestured, "take Lord Bruc's emissary to a guest suite and see that he is made comfortable until I have an answer for him."

"Surchatain." The stocky, black-bearded Second in Command saluted Roman and glanced at the messenger.

Coran paused in astonishment at this unusually gracious treatment of an emissary, then caught himself in time to turn and follow the Second. On his way out, he heard the Surchatain say, "Now I will hear the emissary from Qarqar."

Coran departed the hall behind Kam, who turned down a side corridor leading to the interior of the palace. Coran walked slowly to look at the paintings, tapestries, and finely wrought ornamental weapons that crowded each other the length of the walls. "Your Surchatain spends much for things that entertain the eye," he observed carefully.

The Second glanced at the masterpieces of workmanship. "He bought none of them," he answered. "They came as gifts from other provinces, or from his acquisition of what was formerly Seir and Goerge."

"Ah," Coran responded. They turned down another corridor, this one lined with long slender windows that opened out into the rear courtyard. Passing them, Coran glimpsed a unit of soldiers drilling on the grounds.

He slowly came to a stop as he watched them. The Second in Command, who was under the Commander and above the Captains, paused to look over the unit himself. They were practicing the art of fighting when disadvantaged by a loss of arms. Captain Colin's shouted instructions could be heard even from the corridor windows. Colin, son of the former Surchatain of Seir, was only two years older than his cousin Deirdre. After the death of his father, he had brought with him the wealth of his province to serve Roman.

The Polonti emissary unconsciously leaned against the window facing to see more. He caught sight of a row of weapons stalls filled to capacity and the gear of the soldiers piled on the ground near the walkway. "Are all your men outfitted so?" he asked.

Kam straightened to a perfect vertical and said, "There is complete mail available to outfit each man. Offensively, they are trained with the bow, broadsword, spear, and mace, as well as hand-to-hand and on horseback, of course; then they may choose which weapons and method of fighting suit them best. After that, they are placed in service according to how their skills may best be used."

"How many men do you have, to be able to place them at their preference?" Coran asked in disbelief.

Kam smiled. "You know I can't tell you that. But I will tell you we have more than Tremaine did at the height of his power."

"How does he do it?" exclaimed Coran. "How does your Surchatain lure all the ablest men to his service?"

"He'll take anyone," Kam answered slowly. "He takes anyone willing and trains him to perfection. And he forgives mistakes."

Deirdre stood over a work table in the kitchen, rolling out dough fine and thin. A simple servant's apron covered her richly embroidered dress of sapphire blue. Two young kitchen maids stood at her sides, watching. "The thinner you roll it, the finer and lighter it will be," Deirdre murmured, ". . . there." She paused to wipe her hands on her apron and brush a tangled blond lock from her face. "Merry? Is the filling ready?"

"Yes, my lady, very nearly--" the hefty kitchen mistress hurried up, stirring a large crock of blackberry compote. "It must be mixed a minute longer," she mumbled apologetically.

"There is no hurry," Deirdre said. "They haven't even finished their meal yet, and those men would wait through the afternoon for pastry!"

"True, my lady," Merry said, pausing to let another cook add flour to the compote. This cook, a man, smiled to himself as he glanced toward the Surchataine in her apron. He had been a servant here in the palace for a long time, since before Deirdre had married. He had known her when she would rather have died than set foot in the kitchen, and here she was, showing these girls how to make proper pastry. It amazed him. But she had been different ever since returning from Diamond's Head. He had heard she'd been a slave there--a kitchen maid. Well, whatever did it, now she acted as if these servants were people just like herself. . . .

The Surchataine turned to place a hand on his arm and say, "Brock, please see if Wesley has come back from market yet. I'm dying for a taste of the new fruit wines."

"You'll have it if I have to ride to market myself, my lady," Brock replied, already on his way out.

At the table in a small hall off the kitchen, Roman leaned back to empty his goblet, then set it down, inhaling deeply. Nihl, on his right, and Basil, on his left, looked up at him, silently inquiring. "I don't know what to do about Bruc's request," Roman said, casting a glance toward Nihl.

The Commander dipped a bit of bread in his plate. "You drew an accurate admission from the emissary. Polontis is in danger, but we are not."

"And what if this new tyrant does conquer Polontis?" Roman asked, looking around the table. The Second Kam and the Captains Colin, Olynn, and Reuel did not offer any speculations.

Sevter, the palace overseer, might have had an opinion, but held his tongue when he saw the administrator, Troyce, stir importantly. Troyce said, "Then he may find himself leading a lion on a rope. The mountains in that province make it hard to hold. And the Polonti are not generally a group that will submit readily to a foreign ruler, especially after so many of them were humiliated by enslavement to Sheva." When the words were out he glanced at Nihl, who had been one of those slaves, but the Commander appeared not to take the remark personally.

Roman focused his attention on the clean-shaven, articulate administrator. "You think they would revolt."

"Without question." With a jeweled finger, Troyce casually brushed a crumb from his red velvet coat.

"Yet historically, such revolts are seldom successful at the start," Roman observed.

"This is also true," admitted Troyce.

"So they would expend resources, and lives, in attempts to shake him that would probably fail unless they were aided," Roman concluded. Troyce raised his shoulders, unable to contradict him.

After a pause, Basil reasoned, "The question seems to be, Surchatain, whether you should sacrifice some of your men to contain what is essentially Polontis' problem. What shall you gain that would make the sacrifice worthwhile? Polontis?"

"No," Roman answered. "I would not annex them unwilling, and Bruc would just as soon hand over the province to this new tyrant as to me." They were silent a moment, as those who had not yet finished eating cleaned up the last bit of brewis from their plates.

Then Roman said, "It appears I will have to go to Corona myself."

This statement brought startled protests from those around him: "Surchatain!" "No, Roman, you must not--"

He raised his hand in a short gesture that stilled them. "Not only because of this. I haven't forgotten what I saw in Corona when I was there searching for Deirdre. Now that Lystra is firmly established, I have been thinking more and more of the--the inhumanity I found there. And it has only worsened since then. The Lord has not given me this power to sit and be secure. I believe He wants to deliver Corona from the hell she has made for herself." He stopped, eyes on the far end of the table.

Before anyone could think of an argument, Deirdre appeared from the kitchen carrying a tray of pastries. "I thought you might wait for these, my lord," she laughed, setting the tray before Roman with a bow.

He turned in the great chair and encircled her waist, pressing his face against her bodice. "You are a treasure of many talents, and how I thank God for you," he said softly.

She stroked his hair, bending to kiss his head. The others at table relaxed and settled back in their chairs, smiling. The same thought seemed to flash from mind to mind: He won't go to Corona and leave her.

"Sit beside me," he said, waving at a sentry to bring a chair for her. She sat, handing him a pastry and taking one for herself before passing the tray to Nihl.

"Deirdre," Roman said quietly, laying the pastry aside, "remember all the things I told you about what I saw in Corona?"

"The killing, and robbing, and slave trading? Oh, yes," she said, grimacing. But the pastry was really excellent so she smiled again.

"Yes, all that," continued Roman, and the others grew wary. Nihl leaned forward and Basil began to fidget. "And more trouble has sprung up. Some kind of warlord has begun gathering himself an army. Deirdre . . . I'm afraid I must go to Corona."

She jerked her head up to gaze in his solemn brown face. "Oh, no, Roman, please," she whispered. "You have such capable officers--can't you send them?" Nihl looked intently at Roman but dare not interrupt in this discussion.

Roman lowered his voice. "Please don't argue with me, Deirdre--that makes it so much harder. The Lord has laid Corona on my conscience and I must go."

"Then let me go, too," she said. "Let me go with you."

"By no means," he replied firmly.

"Roman, why not?"

"Expose you to that danger and corruption? Certainly not," he said, offended.

"But what do you think I faced at Diamond's Head?" she insisted gently. "I have handled danger before."

"It would be foolhardy of me to risk your life for this," he said, temper rising. "It is not your battle."

"Roman, my love, I'm your wife. Your battles are my battles. Won't the Lord protect me as well as you? You may need me!"

"Ariel needs you," he countered.

"He needs you, also. Gusta is a faithful nursemaid and will keep him safe until we return."

"I will not risk you for this," he stated.

"Roman--"

"No!"

His sharp denial cut her so deeply that she clenched her teeth to avoid embarrassing herself with tears. But they were coming regardless, so she stiffly rose, nodded to him, and escaped from the hall.

After an awkward silence, Basil said, "It is certainly wisest to keep her here." The others murmured agreement.

Roman sat back, stroking his brow. "I suppose we must scout the situation before taking an army."

Nihl nodded. "Yes, Surchatain," agreed Basil.

"Surchatain, I request to go," volunteered Kam.

"And I," added Colin.

"Very well. Kam, and Colin, and Nihl--I wish you to accompany me. Basil, you will have charge of the palace in our absence, answering to Deirdre, of course, and Troyce shall administrate, answering to you. Olynn, you will be acting Commander."

The officers looked around the table, then Basil finally said, "Surchatain, at the risk of angering you, I must protest your going as a scout. Go if you must, but lead an army when you go."

Roman smiled tightly. "I value a man who is not afraid to speak his mind. But I have to judge for myself what should be done. And until I make that judgment, an army is unnecessary. I'll not be foolhardy, Basil, but I'll not go trusting in a large number of men to protect me when I should have used discretion instead."

No one else spoke, so Roman stood. "Kam, see that Bruc's emissary is summoned before me tomorrow morning."

"Surchatain." He and the rest stood.

"Nihl." Roman jerked his head toward the outer doors. "To the mews."

The Commander joined him on a leisurely walk through the rear courtyard to the small building where the falcons were kept. On the way, Roman remarked, "Deirdre tells me you are reading like a scholar now."

Nihl smiled faintly. "The Surchataine's praise exceeds its object. But she has been kind and patient to teach me. I always desired to read for myself the pages of Scripture Josef wrote from memory."

Roman murmured, "They have special meaning for Deirdre, too." He lowered his head to enter the low door of the mews and paused to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, and to not overly agitate the birds within.

As he slipped on a heavy glove, he quietly whistled a bar of a song. Some flutterment overhead followed, and the tinkling of a bell, as a gerfalcon flapped down to his wrist. "Pretty girl, pretty girl," he cooed, gently putting on her hood with one hand. He untied her jesses from the perch and brought her outside.

He waited, stroking the bird, while Nihl brought out a greyhound from the kennels nearby. The dog, unleashed, bounded up eager for the hunt. Roman and Nihl took the animals with them to the stables, where they acquired horses, then rode southeast from the palace, toward the marshes near the river.

Under cover of trees, they left the horses and Roman unhooded the bird. Then they trod watchfully through the marshes with the greyhound leading the way, nose to the ground.

Flushed by the hound, a flock of cranes sprang to the air ahead of them and the falcon shot up in pursuit. It targeted a lagging bird and seized it with its talons. When Roman whistled the call, the hawk dropped the crane disinterestedly and the hound retrieved it, bringing it directly to Nihl. The falcon, meanwhile, climbed to circle overhead.

After the first kill of the day, the hawk was calmer, so the men began to talk. "It's amazing to see her hunt. I'm glad Troyce thought to introduce falconry here," Roman muttered.

Nihl agreed, "It's a good sport--far better than bows and arrows for small prey. Perhaps you should include it in the games this year."

"Perhaps. But I think it more a test of the bird's skill than the man's."

"The games are scheduled to start in a few weeks," Nihl continued. "Will you delay them until we return from Corona?"

"No," replied Roman. "With or without us, they'll take place as set. It's not fair to the men who have been training to put them off."

Nihl nodded, watching the bird mount and soar. The hound ran ahead of them, nosing for small animals. Nihl added as a careful afterthought, "Troyce has brought less useful ideas from Goerge than hawking, however--such as a desire for power. I am not comfortable leaving him in any measure of control while we are gone."

Roman smiled imperceptibly. "Deirdre thinks he has done well with the household accounts."

"The Surchataine does not supervise him very closely. But the Counselor does, and he does not think Troyce so wonderful."

"Come now, Nihl--could that be due to the fact that Troyce is ambitious, and Basil feels threatened?"

"Ambitious men are dangerous," Nihl said darkly.

Roman glanced at him. "Are you ambitious, my brother?"

"To serve you well, yes. Not to take your place."

Roman watched as the hound dislodged a scurrying hare which the hawk pounced on and then dropped, dead. Nihl clapped his hands to hasten the hound's retrieval of the hare. "I have no justification for censuring Troyce at this point--though your concern is noted," said Roman.

Nihl's face tightened as he took the hare from the dog's jaws and dropped it with the crane in the large net bag slung over his back. "I do not speak idly about this. You know I have never lied to you or misled you."

Eyes on the hawk above, Roman said, "If you have never lied to me, tell me this: Do you love my wife, Nihl?"

Their eyes met. The Commander slowly responded, "I love her, Surchatain. I could not feel otherwise. But I will never touch her."

Their eyes were drawn skyward again as screams above indicated the falcon had found more prey. Roman whistled a different note, giving her permission to eat this prize. He then answered, "I believe you, Nihl. I will give Basil authority to censure Troyce in my absence, if need be." They walked forward, the hound bounding ahead of them.

When they returned to the palace they went directly to the chapel, as the bells were tolling the hour for the daily Scripture readings. The simple service was conducted by the holy man Avelon, who had won Roman's mother to Christianity.

Roman and Nihl entered the lamplit hall quietly to sit in the back. Roman looked for Deirdre in the crowded chapel, but could not find her. She must be quite upset to miss coming today.

His eye then rested on the colored glass window above the wooden cross at the front. The window, which depicted a shepherd carrying a lamb, was a recent addition to admit light to the dark hall. Deirdre had seen picture windows for the first time in the cathedral at Ooster, and had convinced Roman of their desirability. Gazing at it now, he conceded it was beautiful, although part of him missed the stark simplicity of the place where he had spent so many hours in prayer.

Brother Avelon came to the dais at front and raised his hand in a benediction. "Brothers and sisters in Christ, we continue our reading in the Psalms, with Psalm one hundred eight." He paused to find his place in the heavy volume he held. His hands shook slightly with age; his thin white hair fell limply about his shoulders.

After a lifetime of humble service to the villagers in the name of the Lord, Avelon had finally been persuaded by Roman to serve in the palace instead. The moment of decision had come when Roman had visited the coast to find the once-poor villagers ensconced in good houses, wearing fine clothes, due to their mastery of the fishing trade. But Brother Avelon was as poor as ever, living in wretched dependence on the haughty graces of those he had spent his life helping. The irony of it lay not just in that he had taught them to read, thus enabling their success, but that in the crisis of Tremaine's invasion, it was Avelon who had taken them to the coast and introduced them to the established fishermen.

Roman, furious at finding the holy man in such a state, had packed him up and brought him to the palace. And Avelon, old and tired, had acquiesced to stay on.

Now the holy man found his place in the book and read in a voice unaffected by age:

"My heart is steadfast, O God;
I will sing and make music with all my soul.

Awake, harp and lyre!
I will awaken the dawn.
I will praise you, O Lord, among the nations;
I will sing of you among the peoples.
For great is your love, higher than the heavens;
your faithfulness reaches to the skies.
Be exalted, O God, above the heavens;
And let your glory be over all the earth.

Save us and help us with your right hand,
That those you love may be delivered. . . .

Who will bring me to the fortified city?
Who will lead me to Edom?
Is it not you, O God, you who have rejected us
and no longer go out with our armies?
Give us aid against the enemy,
for the help of man is worthless.
With God we will gain the victory,
and he will trample down our enemies."

The words sank down like a lead weight into Roman's soul: Who will bring me to the fortified city? . . . Is it not you, O God?--and he knew his decision to go to Corona had been confirmed.

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