Chapter Text
The entry test for those wishing to join the service of House Davinos is a strange echo of the one the Gallows Choir put him through, many years ago.
“House Royce don’t take outsiders into their service easily.” Thjazi told him. “Even the lowest stableboy gets scrutinised, in case he should be plotting some wickedness with the horses—and not just the sort they stoned that fellow for in Lagfell, neither. But their vassals can’t afford to be so picky, and House Davinos always needs good soldiers. You can be a good soldier, can’t you?”
He can. He goes to House Davinos’ main estate, which stands on the edges of the Golden Orchard, the towers of it standing tall like soldiers, as if watching the borders. He goes as an orphan, displaced by war, seeking some belonging-place, and a man who is named Sir Ferring (the sir is important) has him and the others run laps of the training grounds, spar with each other, run an obstacle course. Then they do it again. And again. The first one to ask for water is unceremoniously rejected from the process.
There are other soldiers of House Davinos there for the test. One calls him forward for a spar. He is older, stronger, and better trained than Azune, and he knocks him to the ground easily. Azune gets up. The man does it again. Azune gets up. He counts five times before Sir Ferring says “Nayar. Pass.”
He has done the first part of what was asked. Azune Nayar is a soldier of House Davinos, and therefore, indirectly, in the service of House Royce. If he is to do what Thjazi wants, though, he needs to be more than just another soldier. He needs to become someone who can protect the lady Aranessa Royce.
He begins by becoming a good soldier.
It is fairly easy to follow the structure that House Davinos provide for their common-blooded soldiers. As a trainee, he sleeps on a narrow bed in a room outfitted to hold a dozen. The bedding is provided, as is sufficient food and clothing for his needs, and equipment he requires for his work. He has an allotted rota of chores and training, and a day a week in which he may do anything he pleases, provided he does not get drunk, because if anyone gets drunk Sir Ferring will skin them alive.
He mostly spends it walking the gardens, practicing what Thjazi taught him about people-watching. It is not until several months in that he understands that Sir Ferring didn’t mean the thing about skinning them literally.
Azune has not yet spoken to anyone of the Davinos family yet. He has listened, several times, to General Davinos give his speeches to the soldiers. They are comfortingly repetitive. He also, for one heartstopping moment, crossed paths with Sir Julien Davinos as the latter was making his way across the gardens, in some merry company of the sort that would not usually acknowledge Azune Nayar’s existence.
But Sir Julien Davinos had looked at Azune, and Azune had thought for a moment he would call him out as Thjazi’s man, that surely he remembered Azune’s place in—events. Then, Sir Julien simply kept walking.
Azune doesn’t know what that means.
What he does know, is that General Raimond Davinos is the one who selects the soldiers from the ranks who will be permitted to serve House Royce directly. He likes loyalty, and duty, and a strict adherence to the rules. A good soldier. Azune can make himself that.
Azune will make himself that.
He does not see Thjazi again for some time. Azune is eighteen years old; or at least, he is fairly sure he is eighteen years old. He has proved himself, to an extent, has moved into new housing where he is one of four in the room. He is permitted to train with the full knights, may aspire to join their number in time, although there are only a certain number of places for the common-born, a limit to how high a rank he might hope to claim.
Azune Nayar is not someone who begrudges these rules. He is a good soldier. An orphan, with no ties that might divide his loyalty, cleaving to the House that has provided him with such an opportunity. It is probably true. He has not let himself hope otherwise.
He has learnt all the rules—the easy ones that Sir Ferring provided him with, and the more difficult ones he had to learn piece by piece. When to speak up, when to lower your gaze, when the vassal knights will be happy to pretend you are equals, all soldiers alike, and when they will remind you that you are not. How you must look very busy and very deaf when General Davinos and his son start yelling at each other.
He has not yet spoken directly to a member of House Royce; the closest he has come is when they all must line up for some member of their liege house to inspect them in their serried rows, and they seldom take notice of individuals.
Still, he has his orders, and he will keep working towards them.
He sees Thjazi again on his day off. It is the Festival of Blossoms, and Azune is working through his mental checklist for the day—he has walked one of the famed gardens, among the crowds, and accepted garlands for his hair from laughing girls. He has not yet worked out why they always laugh, but he knows from last year that it is important to count how many garlands you receive, and then relay that number the following day to your compatriots.
It is nearly midday, which means he should go and buy some lunch, and maybe eat it by the lake. In the afternoon, he has planned to go rowing; out of the available acceptable activities for this festival day, it is his preferred one, as it at least involves some physical activity. He likes the lake. The water is calming.
Before any of this can happen, however, a pixie lands on his head among the garlands. This isn’t, in and among itself, unusual. The pixies sometimes like to perch to get a ride from one place to another, and not falling out of correct posture even when you have several small creatures giggling on your head is another of Sir Ferring’s rules.
Normally, though, the pixie isn’t Thimble. “Just go the way I tell you, okay?” she hisses, and then settles into his hair. Azune wanders through the crowds, pretending he is browsing through the stalls or watching the various performers like everyone else is, not being guided by tugs and whispers from above.
Eventually, he is brought to a slightly quieter location, at the edge of one of the gardens. There is a figure there, unfamiliar, sitting on the end of a carved bench, that somehow calls his attention. There is a figure that should be unfamiliar, but something about it is so dearly familiar that Azune feels his heart skip a beat as he sits down, waiting for whatever order is to come.
“I would say at ease, soldier,” Thjazi Fang says, with his strange illusionary face, “but unfortunately there might not be time for that. No sword. Are you armed?”
Azune nods. “Daggers.” It is not the done thing to go armed and armoured among the festival-goers, unless one is among those fellows picked for the rota to stand at the gates during the many celebrations that take place at the Golden Orchard. Azune has learnt to pretend he does not like it when he is picked. But it is not unallowed to be prepared, and his daggers do not show from under his clothes, so they are within the rules.
“That will have to do. Behind the main theatre, south of the west gate along the forest boundary, can you find an excuse to linger there?”
Azune imagines the festival layout in his mind. The area that Thjazi is speaking of is the very outskirts of the festivities, and there will be little activity there to draw attention, but there are berry-bushes, and berries all the year around, by their liege-lords magical beneficence. He is known to prefer solitude to a crowd. It would be believable, should he say he went wandering in the brambles for a little while. “For a time, yes. What will you—”
Thjazi stands, a sharp motion of his hand cutting the words away. “Go there, as soon as possible. I’ll be near. Just follow your orders, Azune. That’s all you need to do.”
Thimble flies from Azune’s head to his, and Thjazi fades away into the crowd without another word. Azune stands there, for a moment, lets the command sit with him, and then begins to move again.
There is a large crowd at the main theatre, an open-air affair. They are gathered around to watch what looks to be The Ballad of Sir Evergreen, a tale ever-popular among those who follow the Royce. Azune has seen it four times, mostly out of social obligation. He finds the theatre is convenient for fulfilling said obligations, as you do not have to talk during it. The third time had the best fight scenes, because the main actor seemed to have some actual training in fighting, but they are usually mostly faked with a lot of cantrips.
Near to the theatre there are always stalls that sell snacks; he buys a warm bun stuffed with cheese and herbs and nibbles at it as he wanders along the edge of the theatre towards the gate, and then turns again to where he thinks Thjazi wants him placed, the crowds quickly thinning as he moves away from the main area.
Unfortunately Thjazi had not been particularly specific as to exact location, so he defines for himself a sort of patrol route and wanders, finishing up his lunch and then idly collecting some berries in case anyone should ask him what he is doing. Although there doesn’t seem to be many people around. Occasionally he sees a fae flit from place to place, but only moving through, not taking any interest.
He doesn’t know for how long he should linger. Should he find a place to sit? He could perhaps say he was taking a nap. Or would it be better to remain on his feet, ready for action? He really wishes Thjazi had been more specific.
Then he feels it. He doesn’t know what it is, but he feels a strange tug, back towards the boundary, deep in his stomach. Something is wrong.
He breaks into a run when he hears the first scream. Protect the Lady Aranessa Royce. Protect House Royce, and the Orchard. He has sworn these oaths twice, for most of what Thjazi has asked him aligns perfectly well with what House Davinos has, and thus the command is easy to obey.
There is a figure, the one that is screaming—a fae, thin limbs like spindly branches—and something attacking it, the dark form of the undead, and it is the easiest thing Azune has known in years to draw his daggers and simply let himself be. Behind the fae, a burly human man throws an undead soldier bodily into the others that approach as if the weight was nothing, following it with a gesture that causes vines to snake from the earth, tangling around the ghastly feet of the creatures, although one or two manage to shake it off, move forward.
Azune does not have time to think about what that means; he is trying to avoid being clawed by the thing that has turned from the fae to him. Daggers rather than sword or warhammer means he has to get far too close, but he can’t allow himself the time to be scared.
He is a good soldier, and a good soldier wouldn’t be afraid, so Azune is not. He sinks a dagger into the neck of the undead, at the gap in the armour that would be effective on a living man, and it thankfully falls.
One, he counts under his breath. There are half a dozen more approaching, some now shaking off the vines, converging on the human man
Small winged shapes swoop from over-head, attacking but it seems, doing little damage. “Go get help.” the large man says. “My new friend here will help me hold them off.” He turns and smiles broadly, cheerful even in the face of danger, and Azune suddenly puts the vaguely familiar face and the gleam of the famous bracers at his wrist together and stares blankly at Lord Callowyn Royce for a moment.
He doesn’t know how he should respond to that, exactly, but it doesn’t feel like the right time to bow, so instead he nods and moves closer, picking up the mace the creature dropped when he killed it. At least that gives him a little more reach. “At your service.”
“I’m sure Nessa will forgive me for borrowing her favourite trick, just this once.” Lord Callowyn murmurs, confusingly, and then his hands move again and Azune feels a strange lightness fill his body. It seems that the spell has somehow slowed their enemies; he moves and it feels like flying. He swings his new weapon again and again, and their blows in return skim past him, too slow, too obvious. Spells whistle past him, aiding his cause as they crackle against rotting flesh and pale bone.
It feels right. But then, he looks to the side and sees the one that has been slowly creeping forward, with a spear, almost too late; there is only time enough to move, to interpose himself between the tip of it and Lord Callowyn.
He braces himself for the pain. It will be okay. Azune is a good soldier.
He hears rushing in his ears, like water. Like the flood that came only once every hundred years, calamity and destruction and rebirth, clearing the way for the new growth. Like something he’s seen over and over—
Remember.
There is no pain, as a form made of light rises in front of him, slaps the spear away as if it is nothing. He doesn’t understand it; did Lord Callowyn cast something? There’s no time to think, only to swing again, as he hears shouts from behind, these voices familiar and welcome—the promised help.
“You are very interesting, new friend. Don’t die, okay?” Lord Callowyn says, then raises his voice. “Over here!”