Read Online The High King: Book Two of the 'Riothamus' trilogy by Rosemary Fryth - Free Book Online

turned his back on the night and succumbed to the insistent pull
of sleep.
    *
    In his
quarters on the floor above the royal rooms, Archmage Maran felt
the great Keep of Andur cast instinctively its ageless protection
around the last living heir of the Andurian line. The soul of the
Keep had been absent for five generations, but finally it had
returned. Maran thought about the dark and troubled days ahead and
shook his head in weary dismay. This was not an auspicious time for
a new king to begin his rule—unfortunately in this matter, the
fates had decided otherwise.
    Maran believed
that in Arantur, Warleader Andur walked again. Sighing, he shook
his head and hoped belatedly that his gut instinct was right on
this matter. If it wasn’t, then the province would suffer and be
overwhelmed by her enemies as a result. Staring sightlessly into
the candle flame, Maran knew there was rightness and strength in
Arantur. He knew that there was no other man living who could have
taken on this demanding role. From the first moment he had seen
Arantur at Glaive, he knew that the tides of destiny were pulling
that young man ever forward. The blood and heritage that was the
Andurian line was clearly evident in every gesture and look, and
obvious in every word Arantur spoke. Maran inexplicably knew that
he was seeing the spirit of Warleader Andur live again in the mind
and body of his young descendant. Maran sighed again, and offered a
brief prayer to the Goddess to look kindly upon Arantur and favour
him with honour and good fortune.
    Maran sat back
and stretched until his old joints cracked in protest. He had done
all he could. It was now up to Arantur to do the rest. With a
caress of the magepower, the Archmage snuffed out the candle and
went to bed. Silence as heavy as night descended on Andur’s
Keep.
     
    *

Chapter
2—Riothamus
    “My Lord! An
embassy has arrived.”
    Aran put down
the spear he had been training with, and pushed back the helmet in
order to see clearly.
    Almost a week
had passed since that fateful day when he had been hailed as the
last of the Andurian line. Slowly he was settling into a routine of
training, and then afternoons of lengthy lessons and discussions of
magecraft with the Archmage. Gradually he was accessing the
magepower more easily, learning to break through his barriers and
blocks with greater confidence. With the increasing mage knowledge,
the Guard training was taking on extra dimensions, with Aran now
easily out fighting even Captain Taran himself. With no one now to
match him, Aran could only set himself goals of increasing
quickness, accuracy and reaction time. He despaired every day the
loss of the ancient Warriormages, for he knew that he could go much
further in his power and fighting, yet he knew not how to do this.
Maran was helping him with the general uses of the magepower, but
even the Archmage himself could only guess how the ancient
Warriormages achieved their legendary feats of prowess.
    “Who is it?”
Aran asked, pulling off his nasal helm, mail coif and arming cap,
and mopping the sweat from his brow. His fair hair was sweat
sculpted darkly to his head by the rigours of the training, and he
shook his head in the constant wind to free it.
    “An embassy
Lord, from the horsetribes,” one of the Guardsmen on duty had
abandoned his post to alert his Prince.
    “So soon…”
Aran breathed “We weren’t expecting word for many weeks yet.”
    “Be that as it
may…” Darven had sprinted up as soon as he had heard, “We must meet
them immediately. To receive them later in the great hall may be
misconstrued as an insult.”
    Aran nodded,
and pulled off his gauntlets, handing his armour over to Alem who
had been waiting nearby.
    “Alem…can you
please inform Archmage Maran and the Captain that we have a
delegation newly arrived,” Aran asked distractedly. Aran’s bondsman
nodded, and disappeared back into the internal hall.
    Aran turned to
Darven, “Come let’s go. You’re the