Changing the World: All-New Tales of Valdemar

Navar let their chatter wash over him as he brooded on the sight before him. Seeing Haven flourishing so impossibly, Navar realized his greatest fear had never been for some future that he would not live to see but of a present that he most certainly would: if this fragile new kingdom grew past the ability of the great and the good to watch over it, who would defend it from Soferu’s plots? Hardorn had ever been the empire’s enemy. It would be a great coup for the Iron Throne to gain a foothold on Hardorn’s western border.

He feared that day had already come. Who was governing the city? Who was making sure that the right decisions were being made?

No matter what else might happen in Haven, Harleth and Arwulf were competent soldiers, and so there were sentry riders set beyond the far bounds of the town. One of them came to direct Navar’s little company to the new stables and barracks and to tell Navar where he could find Captain Arwulf. He’d hoped to make his report there and be released from his duties, for it was Doladan’s report that King Valdemar would wish to hear, not his. But Arwulf had merely grunted when he presented himself and told him that General Harleth would want to see him at the palace.

“Not a patch on what it’s going to be,” Arwulf said. “But well enough for now. Praise the All that Valdemar’s prayers were answered.”

“Prayers?” Doladan asked, his eyes bright and shining as he drank in all the changes that their moonturns away from Haven had wrought.

“You’ll see,” Arwulf said.

Haven had been no more than a mean scrabble of lean-to shelters and tattered tents when Navar had ridden out. Now, though the air was filled with the scent of new-cut timber and the buildings that greeted their eyes as they walked in the direction Arwulf had indicated were all sharp and raw and new, they were sturdy and well-made. Perhaps Master Rilbard had built the sawmill that he’d talked of all the winter, for Navar could think of no other means by which so much good cut timber could have been procured in so short a time. There were even sturdy plank walkways edging the wide packed-earth streets, and that would be a great boon come the rains. The air was filled with the sound of hammering and sawing—and with the laughter and song of children as well. When Haven was being designed, on the dark days of winter when little else could be done but plan and wait for spring, parks and playing grounds had been thought as necessary to Haven as common gardens and proper drainage.

Soon enough they reached the far end of the city and what would someday be the royal palace.

For now, the palace barely deserved the name, though it was grand enough, considering their circumstances: a three-storied manor house of mage-cured wood rivaling, if not the baronial palace Valdemar had left behind, then certainly a manor house of one of his more prosperous underlords. It stood in the middle of a vast open parkland upon the banks of the river Terilee, its fields straddling the river and stretching away to forest left yet uncleared. Beyond it, where gardens might otherwise have stood, stonemasons had outlined the footings of what Navar could tell would become the permanent palace, and many workers were coming and going in good cheer. It was a busy place, full of industry, with children watching the goings-on with interest.

Navar could see several horses standing free in the fields on the river’s far banks, their coats brilliant white and shining in the autumn sun. He wondered if wild horses had been found by another scouting party, tamed, and brought back for breeding stock. His group had seen nothing of the sort on their travels, either in the northern valley or in the heart of the forest that had tried so hard to claim their lives with its menace, but Captain Arwulf had surely sent others in directions other than to the west.

General Harleth, when found, proved to be one of the men hauling stone for the palace’s foundation, stripped bare to the waist and sweating even in the cooler air of late fall. One of the bright-shining horses was lingering nearby, watching the proceedings with what Navar would swear was an assessing look on its face, and Navar revised his earlier thought uneasily. This was surely no new-tamed wild horse—its every line spoke of quality and breeding. Navar had friends among Valdemar’s ostlers, and in his many visits to the former-baronial stables he had never seen horses with such a glow to them.

When he gained Harleth’s attention, Navar gave his report upon the spot as tersely as possible, for he could feel Doladan vibrating beside him with excitement. Doladan had learned some measure of grace during their travels, but his ebullience was undimmed.