Prologue
I knew the moment my father walked through the door that everything had changed. It was something in the way his eyes didn’t meet mine and how he only muttered a cautious hello to my greeting.
Outside my studio window, the light from the east was fading and, if I’d looked, I knew I could see the wind-starlings flying to the elms to roost. I put down my pencils and waited, checking my drawing with half an eye. I couldn’t continue it with my father in the room, obviously wanting to say something. So I simply waited.
There was no point asking him what he needed. He didn’t respond well, or truthfully, to questions. I watched him as he walked to the far window, the one that overlooked the estate we owned. He didn’t appear to be as neatly dressed as usual and I even wondered if he’d bothered to change when he returned home.
That, of all the things I should have been worried about, worried me most.
When he came to the window, he sighed deeply and gazed out at the scene. I don’t think he was seeing anything.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last, when I thought he might not speak at all. “I tried my best, but I’m sorry.”
I had no psychic gifts but I knew that any conversation with my father that started with an apology from him would not end well.
And so it proved.
Chapter One
A month after that particular encounter with my father, I found myself arriving at my new home. I brought almost nothing with me. No servants, no companions and not many belongings. The only possessions I’d insisted on were my drawing equipment and a sheaf of papers.
I think both my father and the man I was being sold to were surprised enough to agree.
That phrase – being sold – was not one my father had used at any point in the preceding month. However, to me, it seemed a good enough description. In fact, my father spent a considerable time explaining what a wise decision he’d made, a sleight of hand which I made no response to – itself a stance which angered him.
The upshot of the matter was this: my father had agreed to a bonding match with our strongest neighbour, who he hoped might be willing to protect us if we came under attack at any point from other neighbouring lands. At least that was what he told me though I suspected the bargain came with a good number of financial advantages my father would be unable to resist.
He had not expected the subject of the match to be me. By then, however, the concept had been agreed and it didn’t much matter who took part in it. With a blood-alliance between our country and our neighbour, our people would be relatively safe, particularly as the military prowess of our neighbour was not in doubt. Provided I went along with it.
My name then is Ronall Airbright, son of Poltin Airbright, and I am a bringer of peace. Allegedly.