“A commander of the siege army has ridden forward under a flag of truce, sire!”
The captain reporting this news knelt on one knee with his fist on the floor, several paces in front of the dais where the king sat. He kept his head down, but Prince Soren could still see the shame on his face. The captain knew as well as everyone did that they had no choice but to surrender. They were almost out of food. If they rationed what little was left any further, there would be deaths. But that did not make the thought of surrender any easier to accept.
A murmur of alarm swept through the dozens of nobles gathered in the audience chamber.
“What should we do, sire?” Again, the captain spoke without looking up.
“Give him safe conduct through the city,” King Walida, Soren’s father, replied. “It will be the death of our honor should he come to harm.”
“Yes, sire.” The captain rose to his feet and hurried away.
No one spoke as they waited for the Boccharan envoy. Soren stood to the right of his father’s throne, struggling to keep his face expressionless. On the other side, his mother sat in her smaller chair, her back regally straight. They did not even have grounds upon which to sue for terms, but she would never let that fact crush her pride. None of them would.
Soren wondered if the envoy would be a Boccharan or one of the countless mercenaries the Boccharans had in their employ. His question was answered as soon as the man stepped through the door. He had the pale skin and arrogant swagger of a typical Boccharan, although the weeks of battle had left him badly sunburned. It was a testament to the length of the siege that the skin of his nose had already peeled away.
He stopped a few paces in front of the dais and sketched a bow just deep enough to not be insulting. “You majesty, I am Lord General Etarkan. I am authorized by my king to name the terms of your surrender.”
“I see,” Walida replied. “And what would those terms be?”
“Hoshran is to become a province of the Empire of Bocchar. Every citizen of Hoshran will be obligated to pay taxes to the Empire each year equal to forty percent of the value of his or her goods and income.”
Walida half rose to his feet. “Forty percent?! Do you mean to beggar us?!”
“It is a reasonable sum,” Etarkan said calmly. “Hoshran is a rich land of abundant herds and crops. The taxes owed will be calculated by Imperial assessors and you will be required to pay the entire amount, King Walida. How you choose to collect the taxes from your people is your affair.” Etarkan leaned forward slightly. “But understand: the annual payment of the calculated tax may not be waived.”
Walida sank back onto his throne, momentarily stunned.
“You Boccharans are nothing more than thieves!” Soren snapped.
Etarkan smirked. “On the contrary, Prince Soren, we are the victors. You would do well to remember that.” He returned his gaze to Walida. “There is one more thing, King Walida. To ensure your compliance, Prince Soren will be taken to Bocchar as a hostage.”
“What?!” This time, Walida jumped to his feet. “I cannot agree to that!”
“You have no choice,” Etarkan replied. “Even a full garrison is less likely to compel your cooperation than the life of your son.”
“But he is our only child!” Queen Myra exclaimed.
“That is irrelevant. All royal children are to be taken to Bocchar,” Etarkan smiled slightly, “for safekeeping. Rest assured, your son will be treated in a manner befitting his rank, but this matter is not negotiable.”
Walida swallowed. “And if we choose to keep fighting?”
“Your city will fall, King Walida,” Etarkan said with a shrug. “Within days, if not within hours. You know this. Spare your people the hardship. You will not find us cruel masters. The mercenaries will be withdrawn when you have agreed to our terms and Prince Soren arrives safely in Vacharin.”
Soren had to bite his lip to keep from speaking. There was nothing he could say that would not embarrass his father or upset his mother. They had known almost from the moment Bocchar invaded that the outcome would be unpleasant for all of them. But somehow, death at the Boccharans’ hands seemed less dishonorable than this indentured servitude. He glanced at his mother and saw that her eyes were bright, but she held back her tears.
Walida remained silent for several moments. When he finally spoke, his voice carried no emotion. “As we seem to have little choice, I accept the terms of surrender. However, I request that you not allow your mercenaries to enter the city. My people have suffered greatly under this siege and I fear the consequences should your soldiers revel within our walls.”
Etarkan inclined his head. “I understand. Your request is reasonable and I will attempt to honor it.” He shifted his attention to Soren. “Prince Soren, I will allow you up to three days to surrender yourself. The siege will remain in place until you do so. However, once you are in my custody, our troops will be withdrawn and your people can begin their new lives as citizens of the Boccharan Empire.” His expression hardened. “If you do not come forth by the end of the third day, we will attack on the morning of the fourth and the city will be taken by force. I pray you will not let it come to that.”
Soren lifted his chin. “I am a Prince of Hoshran. The lives of my people matter more to me than my own. I will surrender myself tomorrow morning.”
Etarkan smiled. “I will be expecting you, then.” He bowed to Walida again. “Your majesty.” Then he bowed to Myra. “Queen Myra, do not fear for your son’s life. He will not be alone in Vacharin. I have received word that the three children of the king and queen of Istavar are already on their way to Bocchar and that we expect the daughters of the queen of Toomar to be joining them shortly.”
Myra met his eyes coldly. “Should Soren come to harm in Bocchar, we will know that there is no honor in your Empire.”
Etarkan stiffened and his smile faltered. Then he straightened his shoulders and his smile widened again. “As you say, Queen Myra.” He favored them all with another superior stare before turning on his heel and marching from the room. The Hoshran soldiers who had accompanied him followed him out.
When he was gone, Walida slumped in his seat. “I did not expect this,” he murmured. “I knew they wanted our land and peasants. But I did not expect them to simply…” he stumbled over the words, “enslave us.”
Myra shook her head sadly. “By making us pay the tribute, they keep their hands clean while we are forced to steal the fruits of our people’s hard labor. It is us our people will come to hate.” She clenched the arms of her chair until her knuckles whitened. “And they take from me my only child,” she finished in an angry whisper. “I will never find forgiveness in my heart for this.”
Soren stepped around and knelt beside her chair, taking her hand in his. “It’s alright, Mother. You did not raise me to meekly do as I’m told. We will see this through and regain what is ours.”
Myra smiled down at him. “I know, my son. But your absence will be hard to bear.” She cupped his cheek with her other hand. “But I will be brave. I will write to you every week.” She leaned forward and touched her forehead to his. “And you will find in my words of comfort knowledge of how to deal with your captivity.”
Soren went still and returned his mother’s gaze. He understood the implication of her words. As a child, he had enjoyed solving puzzles, and he and his mother had often played a game where she would write out clues to the location of a hidden object for him to find. In the process, they had developed a system of coded communications which only the two of them knew.
“I will look forward to receiving your letters, Mother,” Soren murmured.
Myra sat back. “If you mean to leave tomorrow morning, we will need to begin preparations now.”
Soren nodded and stood up. “I will take only clothes and a few personal items. If they mean to support me as befits my rank, I will assume they will provide me with anything else I need.”
“A reasonable assumption.” Myra also rose and slipped an arm around his waist. “I will help you pack. It will give me a reason to spend a few more hours in your company.” She waved away the handful of female attendants who immediately sought to accompany her and walked with him to his room unescorted. Alone in his room, she allowed the tears she had been holding back to fall, but did not let it stop her hands from moving as she helped him select clothes from his wardrobe.
“It’s cold in Bocchar,” Myra said, “even in summer, or so I’ve heard. I hope your winter garments will be enough to keep you warm.” She paused to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “I will miss you, Soren.” She caught his hands in hers and looked into his eyes. “Don’t let them take advantage of your nature. Who knows what kind of perversions Boccharan men enjoy.”
Soren couldn’t help but smile. “There are some who would say my nature is a perversion.”
Myra swept that away with a shake of her head. “There is nothing perverted about your passions, my son. Sharing your love honestly with another man is natural in its own way. But these filthy Boccharans think they are better than the rest of the world because they have bushels of gold.” Fresh tears welled up in her eyes. “They have all that wealth, but instead of buying goods with it, they buy mercenaries and steal the goods. What sense does that make? They are an insane people.”
Soren gently kissed her cheek. “Don’t think about it, Mother. For the moment, we must do what we have to do to survive.”
Myra returned his kiss. “I am proud of the man you have become, Soren. For your sake, and for the sake of our people, I will be strong.” She stepped away and turned to stare at the clothes they had piled on his bed. “It doesn’t seem like much.”
“It will do for now,” Soren replied. “If it gets very cold this winter, they will have to provide me with something appropriate to wear.”
Myra nodded slowly, her face thoughtful. “You should look after the Istavari children,” she said softly, “and Queen Imalia’s daughters. Imalia’s eldest, Silvia, should be of help to you. We have always been on good terms with Istavar and Toomar. Now is the time to honor those bonds and act as one.”
“I will,” Soren answered gravely. “From today, I will consider them all to be my brothers and sisters.”
“Thank you, my son.” Myra clasped his arm. “The Boccharans will come to regret what they have done.” Her face hardened. “The tribute they collect from us will one day be paid back in blood.”
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Soren departed from the city on foot an hour after sunrise the next morning. He saw no reason to give the Boccharans one of their horses, on top of everything else they would lose. He carried his clothes and other items in a small trunk held in front of him by the handles on either side. He had no weapons, except for the small belt knife he used at meals. The mercenary soldiers watched him approach with smirks on their faces. A few offered lewd jeers, but no threats were made.
Etarkan waited for him at the front of the lines, an arrogant smile on his sunburned face. “Right on time, I see, Prince Soren.”
Soren stopped in front of him. “We Hoshrans are men of our word,” he replied coldly.
“Indeed,” Etarkan smirked. “Come this way.” He turned on his heel and led the way deep into the enemy camp.
Now that Soren could see the full extent of the Boccharan army, his stomach tightened involuntarily. It was astonishing they had withstood these forces for as long as they had. If this army had taken the city in battle, thousands, maybe even tens of thousands, would have died.
Etarkan stopped next to a wagon with a high canopy. “You will ride in here, Prince Soren.”
The wagon had a gate at the rear with two steps below it. A soldier standing next to the wagon opened the gate so Soren could slide his trunk in. He watched impassively as Soren mounted the steps and then closed the gate behind him, securing the latch with a pin. Inside the wagon, there were benches on either side. At the front was a wider, cushioned pallet, obviously intended for sleeping.
Etarkan climbed onto the bottom step and leaned over the gate. “You’ll find a box under the pallet with blankets, should you need them, and the sides of the canopy can be lowered for privacy.” He gave Soren a condescending smile. “I’m sure these rustic accommodations feel beneath you, but rest assured it’s only temporary. You will be given excellent accommodations in the Imperial Palace at Vacharin.”
“Undoubtedly,” Soren replied, just barely managing to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. He shoved his trunk under one of the benches and sat down. “How soon do we depart?”
“Immediately.” Etarkan hopped down and began shouting orders.
As he watched the soldiers break camp, Soren was surprised. He had not expected Etarkan to keep his word about holding the mercenaries out of the city. But then, the mercenaries were obviously well-paid. The strict discipline he saw around him bespoke professionalism. These were men who fought for money and nothing else. They followed orders and collected their pay, and were just as happy if they didn’t have to fight. By mid-morning, the first units moved out and Soren’s wagon went with them. Beyond the city, the devastation wrought by the siege was plain. Pastures that Soren knew should have been dotted with livestock were empty. Farmstead gardens were stripped of produce. Hollow-eyed peasants watched the soldiers go by, holding their children close. Bitterness filled Soren’s chest. It would only get worse under the Boccharans’ rule. Losing forty percent of what they produced would barely allow these farmers to maintain their herds and replant their fields. There would be nothing left to set aside for a drought year or a bad harvest. Misery was inevitable.
The road they followed wound through farms and pastures before entering a vast forest that swathed the border between Hoshran and Bocchar. In Hoshran, the forest was mostly level, interspersed with open fields were old beaver dams had flooded the ground to form wide meadows. After a full day of travel, the army made camp in one of these meadows, split by a slow-moving stream. Soren was invited to dine with Etarkan in his tent.
“I’m afraid our rations have gotten rather plain,” Etarkan said as servants who were clearly not soldiers served the meal. “I hope you won’t take offense.”
Once again, Soren had to bite his tongue. The roasted chicken and simmered vegetables were undoubtedly looted from the hungry peasants they’d passed and the thought chased away his appetite.
“This bread, however, is from one of our finest Boccharan bakeries. I have a weakness for it, I confess.” Etarkan chuckled as he offered Soren a slice of fine-grained white bread, the soft outer crust a pale golden brown. “It’s a little old, but I think you’ll find it quite palatable.”
Lifting his chin, Soren accepted the bread with all the dignity he could muster. If this wretched Boccharan was going to pretend he was not a prisoner, Soren would play along. “Thank you.” He bit into the bread even though he was not hungry. The flavor was very mild.
“Tasty, isn’t it?” Etarkan said. He placed a spoonful of the vegetables on Soren’s plate. “Try the vegetables. This method of cooking, simmered in wine and spices, is very popular in Bocchar. You’ll find it has a very sophisticated flavor.”
Soren swallowed. He really didn’t want to eat, but insulting his host would only bring dishonor on himself. He lifted his fork and sampled a portion of the dish. A mixture of cabbage and leeks, the vegetables had absorbed the wine, enhancing their natural flavor. The spices provided interesting accents on top of the wine. “It’s quite good,” he admitted, albeit reluctantly.
Etarkan smiled and nodded to one of the servants. The man stepped forward to carve the chicken and serve portions onto each of their plates. “You will find, once you are in Vacharin, that only the finest food, drink and amenities will be made available to you,” Etarkan said. “Boccharan royalty and nobility are widely honored, and you will be placed on an equal footing with them.”
Soren decided not to answer that. He put on his very best manners and made a show of eating the meal. When they were finished, Etarkan offered him a glass of sherry and he accepted. After that, he returned to his wagon. The sides of the canopy had been rolled down to shield him from the night air, but it was still chilly inside. He retrieved a blanket from the box under the pallet and stretched out to sleep. “Good night, Mother,” he whispered.
In the morning, they resumed their march north. They took a break at midday to rest and eat, as they had the day before, and then continued on. They passed through two villages and a small town over the next few days, and in each one Soren saw signs that the townspeople had suffered for being along the Boccharan supply line. It wasn’t until they crossed the river Talmir, which marked the border between Bocchar and Hoshran, that Soren saw anyone smiling. The realization only increased his bitterness.
Unexpectedly, the army stopped about an hour after crossing the Talmir, when the road they were following met another at a large crossroads. There was another army already camped here and Soren would have thought it large had he not already seen the army besieging Gurial, his home.
A soldier came to Soren’s wagon and opened the rear gate. “The Lord General wants you to attend him.”
Soren climbed down and followed the soldier into the other encampment, where Etarkan was meeting with another man under an open canopy.
“Ah,” Etarkan said as he approached. “Here is my captive.”
“Excellent, Lord Etarkan,” the other man replied. He regarded Soren with a faintly superior expression. “Southern royalty doesn’t seem to have quite the air of our northern breed,” he sniffed. “I had thought it was just because I was dealing with children.” He gestured and Soren’s gaze followed the direction of his hand. Clustered together under a neighboring canopy were two boys and six girls. The oldest of the group, one of the girls, appeared to be about fifteen; three years Soren’s junior. The youngest child, one of the boys, could not have been more than four. Even from where he stood, Soren could see that his large dark eyes were bruised and red from weeping. Fury shot through him and he clenched his fists.
“We may as well keep them all together,” the other man continued. “I’ll let you deal with them until we reach Vacharin, Lord Etarkan. I loathe children.” He picked up a glass of wine from a table at his elbow and sipped it calmly; an obvious dismissal.
Etarkan stiffened slightly, but he bowed anyway. “Of course, Duke Shanfors.” He beckoned to Soren. “Come with me please, Prince Soren.”
Soren followed Etarkan angrily, suddenly feeling a trace of respect for the man. Etarkan always addressed Soren by his title and spoke politely, despite his generally arrogant manner. But that was a far cry from the insulting manner Duke Shanfors had just displayed. The last time Soren checked, a duke stood beneath a prince in rank. To be treated as he had just been treated not only dishonored him, but all of Hoshran.
When they drew close to the other canopy, Etarkan stopped and gestured for Soren to continue alone, giving the group a moment to themselves. Soren inclined his head briefly in appreciation before stepping under the canopy and addressing himself to the waiting children. “I am Soren Mallory, Crown Prince of Hoshran. I take it you are the royal children of Istavar and Toomar.”
The eldest girl quickly nodded. “I am Silvia Valendin, Princess of Toomar. These are my sisters, Ilsa, Satia and Lania.” She touched three of the girls as she introduced them. “These three are Connor, Alta and Jemis Oville of Istavar.”
Soren nodded to each of the children as they were introduced. Then he dropped down to one knee to put his face more on a level with the younger ones. “Don’t be frightened,” he said quietly. “The Boccharans have promised not to harm us and I believe they will keep their word. For now, we must look to each other for comfort and strength.”
“I want to go home!” Jemis said in a small voice. “I’m scared!”
“I know.” Soren put a gentle hand on the boy’s head. “I want to go home, too. But we have to be brave. I won’t let anything happen to you.” Jemis blinked at him, his large eyes moist with tears. Soren stood up and spoke softly to Silvia. “It’s up to us to look after them,” he said. “I trust the Boccharans not to mistreat us, but that’s as far as I trust them. We are strangers in a hostile land.”
Silvia nodded. She swallowed and squared her shoulders bravely. “I understand.”
When they resumed their journey to Vacharin, Soren was moved to the wagon shared by Connor and Jemis. The girls were sequestered in another wagon, whose canopy sides were rolled down and tied to shield the girls from the eyes of the soldiers. It took another five days of travel to reach the Imperial City of Vacharin, which rested in a wide, steep-sided valley high in the northern mountains. They were still well below the tree-line, but cold wind blew down from the snow-capped mountains that rimmed the northern edge of the valley, offsetting the lingering warmth of the afternoon sun.
Vacharin was a vast city, easily twice the size of Gurial, although Gurial was much older. The stone streets were wide and smooth. Nearly every intersection had either a fountain or a statue at its center. The buildings were exquisitely constructed from stone and the finest hardwoods, decorated with fluted columns, finials, arches and gables. The people walking the streets were dressed in clothes of silk brocade, their cloaks trimmed in fur. But when Soren looked down the narrow alleyways between the stately buildings, he saw other people, more simply dressed, hurrying along with loads on their backs.
The Imperial Palace itself was a building of such towering magnificence that Soren could not help but be taken aback. Its facade of snow-white marble was accented with green and pale rose marble carved into the shapes of flowering vines. Graceful towers pierced the sky, flanked by carved stone buttresses that resembled trees. But for all its beauty, the palace left Soren cold. It did not feel like a place where people lived. Yet Etarkan beamed with pride as he presented it to them.
“This is the crowning jewel of Bocchar!” Etarkan exclaimed with a sweep of his arm. “The Imperial Palace of Vacharin! Have you ever seen anything so magnificent?” He asked the question, but clearly did not expect any kind of answer other than awed silence. “Come. I will present you to his majesty.” He led the way into the palace, through carved ebony doors trimmed with beaten gold. The floors beneath their feet were marble, but finely woven carpets ran down the center of every hall. Countless pieces of statuary stood in niches along the walls, and costly tapestries were interspersed with beautifully painted nature scenes. The ostentation of it all quickly tired Soren. When they arrived at last outside a wide set of brightly polished blond-wood doors, Etarkan stopped.
“King Ladrel is a great man,” Etarkan said in a low voice. “He is accustomed to receiving the appropriate courtesy as befits his station as the ruler of the Boccharan Empire. Please remember your place if you are asked to address him. Otherwise, do not speak.” Etarkan turned and nodded to the guards waiting beside the oversized door handles. The guards pulled the heavy doors open and Etarkan led the way into the audience chamber.
It was the largest room Soren had ever seen. The ceiling was so high it was lost in the shadows, even though sunlight still pored through the high windows. The windows themselves stretched from just below the ceiling to half-way down the walls. They were enormous and the amount of glass required for such windows represented yet another ostentatious display of wealth. The audience hall was crowded with finely dressed nobles, but no one stood very close to the dais on the far side of the room. The room was much wider than it was deep, so entering through the wide doors put one within paces of the king immediately.
King Ladrel was older than Soren’s father Walida by ten or fifteen years and the haughty expression he appeared to habitually wear soured his face, giving him lines that drooped down at the corners of his mouth and eyes. He looked down his thin nose at the children of his conquered enemies with the same expression one might use to examine a large and disgusting insect. Beside him, his queen wore a similar expression, her plump face twisted into a harsh frown.
Etarkan stepped forward and bowed deeply, holding the pose until Ladrel addressed him.
“Well, Etarkan, I see you have accomplished your mission.”
Etarkan straightened. “Yes, your majesty. I have returned with the royal children of Hoshran, Istavar and Toomar, as I was instructed.”
“There certainly are a lot of them,” the queen sniffed.
Ladrel patted her hand and chuckled paternally. “Now, now, my queen! We have three fine boys of our own, after all. This crop, when spread over three kingdoms, is hardly excessive.”
“I suppose.” She looked away and held a scented kerchief to her nose, clearly ready to be done with this onerous chore.
Ladrel returned his attention to Etarkan. “I assume you have suitable quarters already set aside for them, Etarkan,” he said. “See that they are looked after and kept out of the way. I would prefer not to be bothered with them again.”
“Yes, your majesty.” Etarkan bowed again, holding the pose for several heartbeats before turning to usher them back out of the audience chamber.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Soren rounded on Etarkan. “I thought you said we would be treated as befits our rank!” he snapped. “That shameful audience doesn’t even come close!”
Etarkan held up placating hands. “I understand your dismay, Prince Soren, but recognize that King Ladrel has many concerns he must deal with on a daily basis. As his own sons are all grown, he no longer has patience for young children. You should not have reason to interact with him again. The quarters I have planned for you are in a different part of the palace. Please follow me.”
Soren fumed as Etarkan led them away. At length, he brought them to a round antechamber with an ornate skylight above a parquet floor. Around the perimeter of the room ran a long bench with overstuffed cushions of wine-red silk on the seat and back. On the far side was another door covered with carvings of vines and flowers.
“Your rooms are beyond that door,” Etarkan said. “The entire wing has been set aside for you, so choose whichever rooms suit you. The servants will attend to your needs.” He inclined his head politely. “Welcome to Boccharan.” And with that he departed, leaving them alone in the antechamber.
Silvia drew a breath. “How quickly they wash their hands of us,” she murmured.
“But don’t assume we aren’t being watched,” Soren answered. “They have no intention of allowing us to leave.”
“I know,” Silvia nodded. “Shall we go in?”
“Yes.” Soren sighed as he led the way through the carved door, his arm around young Jemis’ shoulders. This was not an auspicious beginning to their new lives.