The Length of Years

By Xan Kaplan

Vallon Steere is a man with everything to lose. Falsely accused of a crime he didn't commit, he's trapped in a prison cell with his once-promising future reduced to nothing more than a distant dream. But Vallon is not ready to give up just yet.

In a desperate bid to prove his innocence Vallon turns to the court clerk, hoping she'll believe his story. And what a story it is. From his privileged childhood as the son of a rural duke to his time in the King's Army, Vallon has led a life less straightforwardly noble than he'd like to admit. His quest for revenge and his search for a missing sister have taken him down a dark and dangerous path.

As Vallon lays bare his past, he's forced to confront some uncomfortable truths. He may not have committed the crime he's accused of, but his actions have consequences. And as war looms on the horizon, Vallon realizes that his past may be the key to securing his future.

A tautly written fantasy adventure full of unexpected twists and turns, Xan Kaplan's 'The Length of Years' is a gripping tale of one man's fight for justice. With its richly drawn characters and vividly realized setting, this is a story that will stay with you long after you've turned the final page.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: May 15, 2023

Book preview

Interlude

INTRODUCTION

Inside the prison beneath the city courthouse there is a dim little room where they stash whoever is currently awaiting trial, and tonight that unlucky fellow was me. I was not alone in the room. One of the king’s guards was there too, watching me with a lifted eyebrow because she’d just asked me a question, and I was taking too long to answer.

It might be viewed as suspicious, my long silence. But how I responded could mean the difference between regaining my freedom or spending what little remained of my life here, in uncomfortable confinement. The first problem was that I didn’t know what to say to get myself out of my predicament. The second problem was that I have a tendency to ramble.

I was born in the province of Tar-ma-rin, I began. "I grew up in a town called Lye-St-Eere, north of the walled city of Fray, south of free-run Ar-a-mad, and miles from the sea, where we are simple folk, religious folk, and generally hold the popular belief that only the Gods can judge a man. Yet here you are, asking me to do something more difficult than catching a wild Lamp-Eel, or holding water in my fist. Asking me to do the impossible—to judge myself. And if I refuse to do so, then I assume that you believe yourself equal to the task, the task which, again, only the Gods can do?" I sat back as I asked, my chains making the unpleasant clinking sound that I had grown used to over the past few weeks.

In front of me, the guard was unimpressed with my diatribe. Her impassive face showed no change in expression, even as I accused her of blaspheming against the Gods. In fact, she may even have rolled her eyes at that bit, though that could have been a trick of the light. Maybe they were not superstitious, here in Akana. I would have to try a different approach. I was about to speak again when she interrupted me.

I only asked how you intend to plead.

It’s more complicated than that, I began. There’s a whole—

How do you plead? she asked again, her voice firm.

I sighed. Innocent. Guilty. More one than the other, of course. Both, I added, which was not a clarification. I tried to fold my arms across my chest, but the heavy chains made the task more difficult than I was expecting. I had to awkwardly intertwine my wrists, or else spend the rest of the conversation lifting twenty pounds of iron with each arm. After what felt like several moments too long, I had arranged my arms comfortably, if not gracefully. I looked back at the guard. Her expression was still unchanged, though she did spare a brief glance at the timepiece hanging on the wall behind me.

I’ll need a statement, too. Your accounting of events. She took out a piece of parchment. Not your whole life story. I ignored her. Please cooperate, she urged me, when she realized I wasn’t going to say anything.

The corners of my mouth quirked. So now you’re the one pleading?

The guard looked at the timepiece again. She turned back to me and sat waiting expectantly for a few long seconds. I returned her stare and did not speak. Exasperated, she threw her hands into the air. How am I supposed to help you if you won’t tell me what happened?

You asked me if I was guilty. How is that helping? I scoffed. "I’ll wait for tomorrow and tell the judge, myself. I’m sure the nuances of what I say will be entirely wasted on some violence-prone lout of a prison guard who hasn’t even graduated to street duty yet."

The woman sitting across from me frowned. I’m not a guard, she said, her brow furrowing further. I’m a clerk. I work for the court.

Upon closer inspection, I noticed that she appeared rather slender for a guard. They were usually built for brawling, with broad shoulders and thick forearms. And this woman was carrying a few too many quills to be the average prison guard, who I unkindly assumed couldn’t read.

Ah, I said. Then I apologize for calling you a violence-prone lout. I should have called you an ink-fingered scribbler.

The clerk still looked confused. Neither of those things are insults. And regardless of your plea, you need to give a statement. She glanced, none too subtly, at the timepiece again.

I turned around to look as well, though I’d always had trouble reading clocks. We had used sundials when I was young, or just looked into the sky itself. It didn’t help that my vision was poor, and the numbers painted on the device’s ornate face were too small for me to see the specifics of the hour. I didn’t need to. It was evening, as I already knew. The evening of the one short night left before my trial. And this clerk was annoyed that I was wasting her time. She was annoyed, when I was the one for whom time was, in all likelihood, extremely limited.

She likely had other plans. Perhaps a dinner, or some social event? For a young woman like her, the evenings were probably filled with friends and laughter. Surely she had something better to do than question a soon-to-be-condemned prisoner. Actually, that was optimistic. It was quite possible that I was already condemned, and that my trial tomorrow would be nothing but a sham. I had to admit, I held a grudge against the clerk for her role in the legal system. Petty though it may be, I decided that at the very least she deserved to miss her dinner.

"Well, I do love to talk about myself, I said with a shrug. I suppose I have nothing better to do than regale you with a very long, very detailed account of the events."

Maybe a short, concise— she began, but I cut her off.

Well, I can skip part of it, as you have most certainly already heard of my exploits. I looked at her expectantly, but there was no recognition in her eyes.

I don’t think so, the clerk said hesitantly.

I’m Vallon Steere, I explained, but she just shook her head in apology. "The Vallon Steere?" I added hopefully.

I’ve never heard of you, she said after a moment.

Vallon Steere, the king’s most famous Inquisitor?

Aren’t Inquisitors meant to keep their identity secret? the clerk pointed out. If you were famous, wouldn’t that mean that you’re not very good at—

Fine, I said hastily. I tried again. The rescue of Count Raviller’s daughter? The Cabarallian war?

Are you confessing…to a war? the clerk asked slowly.

I sighed. Have you really never heard of me? My ego deflated slightly. More than slightly.

Sorry. She shrugged. "Some of those sound familiar. You share a common name with some minor public figures. But I don’t know what that has to do with the way you intend to plead."

Then let’s get that out of the way before we begin, I said. Firstly, on the count of the soldiers in the marketplace, I am innocent. It was self-defense. She opened her mouth to speak but I did not give her the chance. Secondly, on the count of smuggling a prince across the border during the war, I am guilty. Though, technically, it was two princes, and also I don’t think that it should count as a crime. Now, as for—

Wait, the clerk cut in, holding up a hand to stop me. I need more information.

And you’ll get it, I said grimly. For I have not yet said how I intend to plead on the thirdly charge, the most important charge, the charge that got me dragged here in the first place with two other pet charges tacked on for good measure. As for that, I cannot yet say if I am innocent or guilty. And I doubt anyone can, without hearing the whole story. I paused then, eyeing the young clerk. "I don’t suppose you would like to hear it, so that we might consider together the manner of my pleading? I unfolded my arms, a much easier task than folding them had been. But, if I am to tell you anything, then I must tell you everything, for it all comes into play. It will be a long tale, and many long tales within it. But you and you alone will hear it, and then, once you have a God’s eye view, you may judge me. After hearing the whole of it, you can tell me how to plead."

The clerk looked annoyed, but also intrigued. Even if she hadn’t heard of me—an impossibility I refused to consider—she knew the charges against me. I was no thief stealing copper pieces or rogue knifing merchants in alleyways. She had to know I was someone different. Besides that, it was her job. If she was allowed to leave without the information she sought, she would have done so already.

I would like to hear what you have to say, she told me, though she still seemed annoyed.

Well, then I better start now if I want the story to be finished by morning.

Morning? she exclaimed in dismay. You don’t mean this will take all night?

I shrugged. There’s a lot of ground to cover. Unless, of course, you want to go back to whoever employs you and admit you couldn’t get an answer out of me.

You did answer about the first two charges, she reminded me, sullenly.

And yet you aren’t leaving, I pointed out. So I suppose my assertations were correct, and no one cares about those crimes.

She grumbled a bit, but did not disagree.

I took a moment to gather my thoughts. Now that I had the chance to share my story, I wasn’t quite sure how to begin. As I considered the options, I realized I was eager to tell the whole tale. Perhaps in the telling I might remember some small detail that would help me defend my case the next day. After all, I always find everything I do to be perfectly reasonable. Whether the judge would, was a separate question entirely. Besides, I hadn’t been lying earlier. I do love to talk about myself.

Alright, I said evenly. But if I am to tell you everything, I don’t want any distractions. You’ll have to turn around that timepiece. She did, and, before she’d even sat down, I began to speak. I was born in a small town in the Northwest corner of Tar-ma-rin, the son of a duke.

You’re of noble blood? The clerk’s eyebrows shot up.

I gave her a withering glance. "There is no need to question me again. If I say I am the son of a duke, you will believe I am the son of a duke. Or else we are both wasting our time here. My father was Zaefer Steere, Duke of Lye-St-Eere, and I’m sure you know how that particular story ends. Perhaps I should stop there. But, then again, you haven’t heard my version, have you? And so, if you allow it, I will continue."

The clerk apologized. I waited a moment, and then, for the second time, I began to tell my tale. And my tale was this.

Chapter 1

Iwas born in an isolated corner of rural Tar-ma-rin, in a small castle called Lyekeep, in the town of Lye-St-Eere. You have almost certainly already heard of what took place there. We’ll get to that later, for you cannot understand what was taken from me until you understand what I had to lose. My father was good and wise; my mother gentle and kind. My half-sister Varille was known throughout Tar-ma-rin for her beauty, and as for myself, I was as carefree as any boy could be.

Lye-St-Eere, and my family, were both named for Saint Eeres who first discovered gold in the western mountains. Of course, that gold had run out centuries ago. Money was something we had very little of. Though my father was a duke, he was not a wealthy one. I never knew this. As a boy, I believed all dukes helped with the harvest, and all duchesses lent a hand to sew torn bedding. We may not have had the life of leisure that some other nobility enjoy, but we were happy.

I spent most of my days running in the fields behind Lyekeep, climbing trees and fording the sweet little stream that flowed through our lands. As my parents could not afford a proper tutor, it was Varille who was in charge of my schooling. She was decently well-read, but had no aptitude for teaching—and no interest in wasting her time with me, as I was a hopeless student. If I ever begged, she was only too happy to let me skip my lessons. And I often begged. As such, my childhood was rather wild, unfettered by rules or schedule. I’d often disappear in the early mornings, playing or exploring until it was time for dinner. When the shadows grew long, I’d be called inside either by Varille or my mother, and I would sit down to food that was never stale or spoiled. In fact, I did not know that food could spoil. I believed it was always fresh as the day it was harvested.

One day, in midsummer, I was summoned earlier than usual. The sun was still high in the sky but my mother’s call rang, clear and loud, across the fields. I considered ignoring her. I could pretend I had been downstream catching frogs, or in the far field where we kept our donkeys, and therefore out of earshot. However, there was an edge in her voice that I had not heard before. With some trepidation I made my way back to Lyekeep, wondering the whole time if my mother had discovered some toy I’d left out or mud I’d tracked in. When I arrived, she seemed more nervous than angry.

Hurry up and get washed for dinner, she said. "The servants have put out clothing for you. And please be thorough. She looked me up and down, her lips pursing slightly. Don’t leave any dirt under your fingernails."

I nodded and scampered off. In the typical way of grownups, she’d told me what to do but not why. And so, when I looked out the little window in my chamber, I was surprised to see a covered carriage winding its way up the long road towards Lyekeep. It was pulled by two fit-looking stallions, both with elaborately braided manes. I wanted to watch more so I could see the seal on its side as it came closer, but doing so would interfere with following my mother’s orders. And though she had never punished me, the thought of her disappointed face motivated me much more than the spankings my playmates all received from their own parents. I rushed to wash myself and put on the clothing that had been left on my bed.

It was my most formal dinner cloth, and I’d nearly outgrown it. I wore the outfit so rarely that I hadn’t even noticed the change. Squeezing into the waistcoat, I made a note to ask my mother for a new set. Though, to be honest, I wouldn’t have minded fully growing out of the ensemble and never seeing it again. Our house colors were navy, paired with a foppish powder blue. My father made it look dashing but with my yellow hair and cherub cheeks I found that when I wore it, I much resembled a pageboy in a mummer’s play. Still, I dared not disappoint my parents by showing up at dinner in something else.

Once I was suitably presentable, I scurried downstairs. The carriage must be almost here by now, and I was dying of curiosity. We almost never had guests, and when we did, they tended to ride in wagons. The last time a carriage had arrived it had carried Lord Falerdown, whose visit we had known about for months before it happened. This was a stranger and, better yet, a mystery. I bounded down the hallway, nearly dashing past the Great Hall where my father was sitting by the fire, arguing with Zed.

Zed was our mage, and my father’s only indulgence. At the time, I did not know what an extravagant expense a mage could be. I assumed every noble house had one, the same way they had a cook or a groundskeeper. It was only later that I learned their cost. I still can’t fathom how my father afforded to keep him on. Looking back, it’s clear that he was the reason why our food never spoiled, why the sheep never died birthing lambs and our crops never suffered blight. But still, a mage did not fit into my father’s meager budget. And I never saw Zed being paid. He was simply treated as a member of the household and that was that. I didn’t think more of it at the time, back when I was surrounded by people I could have asked.

For the most part, I avoided him. He slept often, and when he woke he was sullen and quiet. He liked to read. He did not like to climb trees or play in the stream, and therefore I had no use for him. Can you imagine that? I spent my whole youth with a mage living down the hall from me, and I thought he was boring because he didn’t climb trees?

But, I shall not chide myself for not knowing then what I know now. On that particular night, he caught my attention because he was arguing with my father. This was rare. No one argued with my father. The duke was a stern man, but he was just, and when he said something his words were taken at face value. Being the nosy sort, I stopped to eavesdrop. I peeked into the room, breathing as quietly as I could. I did not need to worry. Neither of them so much as glanced in my direction. Though I had missed the first part of their discussion, the tension between them was obvious.

"I don’t want to, Zed hissed. He was sitting in an armchair, hunched over with his arms around his stomach. Even then I was observant, and I knew people did that when they were scared. I had never seen him scared. I had never seen him angry, either. He swung between listlessness and irritation, at least in my experience. Of course, looking backwards at the past has a way of making things obvious. He was as disinterested in me as I was in him, and the irritation he frequently displayed in my presence could be traced to one source: I can admit that, as a boy, I was terribly irritating. But at this moment, he was upset with my father. You of all people do not get to tell me what I can wear." Zed’s voice was quiet. I leaned in, holding my breath.

I’m not giving you a choice, Zizi. My father’s words were firm, tinged with anger. Zed’s mouth fell open for a moment when he heard the last word, just a brief display of surprise before he pouted again. The light of the fire glinted off his dark hair and eyes. He turned his face away to stare into the dancing flames. His eyes were extra bright, and I wondered if he was fighting back tears.

Zizi must be an insult, I thought. I’d never heard the word before, and Zed didn’t seem to like it when my father called him that. My father sat for a moment, and then leaned forward and grabbed Zed’s wrist.

"Don’t, Zed said petulantly. Then for the first time, I heard him raise his voice. Do not touch me." Despite his words, Zed did nothing to stop my father from peeling off the black gloves the mage always wore. My father was the larger man, and stronger by far, but Zed could have easily fought back. He probably could have turned my father into a toad without even thinking about it! I tensed, poised to rush in and help Papa if it turned into a fight.

I didn’t know how to fight, and I certainly didn’t know how useless my help would be against someone gifted with magic. I had the reckless overconfidence of a boy on the cusp of manhood, and believed myself invincible. Luckily, Zed did not try to turn my father into a toad, or a snail, or a pair of dancing shoes. He did not even pull his hands back. He glared, still staring into the fire, while my father carefully folded the slim leather gloves.

Sorry, lad. You can have these back after dinner, Papa said patiently. Zed didn’t answer. He just narrowed his eyes and kept his face turned away. My father sighed and placed a hand on Zed’s shoulder. I saw Zed tense, and remain tensed, until my father let go and turned to walk out of the Great Hall. Towards me.

I got away just in time. I knew scurrying in the opposite direction would make it obvious I’d been spying, so instead I leapt a few paces back and then strolled casually towards the Hall, turning into the door just as my father was leaving.

Oh, hullo! I said, innocently. I hear we have a guest at dinner?

Yes, we do. My father placed Zed’s gloves into one of the several pockets on his waistcoat, then reached out to ruffle my hair.

I ducked away, feigning horror. Mother asked me to look presentable. Papa, please don’t mess up my hair, or she will be ever so disappointed. I looked up at him with exaggeratedly wide eyes.

My father stifled a laugh. He put his hands up placatingly, then brought them together and bowed, in the courtesy traditional of Tar-ma-rin. I wouldn’t dream of sending you to dinner with untidy hair. Please forgive me, young lord.

I considered for a moment, pretending to think it over. I suppose I shall forgive you this one time, Duke Lye-St-Eere, I said, giving him a benevolent bow in return.

My father swept me into a hug. Try see if you can cheer up Zed, he whispered in my ear. I don’t want him sulking all through dinner.

Considering this task, I nodded solemnly. I didn’t care for Zed, but when my father made a request people followed it. As soon as he walked out of the room, I sauntered over to the chair where Zed was still sitting, watching the fire. Say, Zed, I began. How many legs does a horse have, if you call a tail a leg? Zed didn’t answer, even though it was a good riddle. I switched tactics. What does Zizi mean?

At that, Zed turned. It’s an old Tarillan word that means ‘owl,’ he said evenly. If he’d been shedding tears earlier, he’d dried them, and his face gave no sign of his earlier displeasure. Why do you ask?

My father called you Zizi.

Oh, you were snooping? Zed’s expression went dark again. "So you saw when he took my gloves? Just ripped them off like garters from a halfpenny whore—" he went silent then. People do that, when you’re a child, and they’ve just said a bad word. The better choice would be to keep talking, distract you until you’ve forgotten what they said, but instead they just freeze up so the last thing you heard was exactly what they didn’t want you to. But I already knew what a whore was. I spent time in the kitchens and the cook’s boys were all very open about their exploits at weeks-end. So I was less interested in the apology that Zed began to stammer out, and more interested in why my father was calling him an owl.

"I suppose I won’t go and ask my mother what a halfpenny whore is, I began. If you can tell me why my father called you that." I figured it must be an insult, as well as a word for an owl. Perhaps it was similar to Jackass, which was both an animal and something to call people you thought were stupid. But Zed wasn’t stupid. Maybe it meant lazy. Both Zed and owls liked to sleep late into the day.

Zizi used to be my name, Zed said, and I was so surprised that my jaw fell open. The corners of Zed’s lips quirked. I had never thought that Zed might not be his real name, though it made sense. ‘Zed’ was a common name in Tar-ma-rin, but Zed was not from Tar-ma-rin. With his dark hair, he was most likely born in the south. Somewhere like Tarilla, where Zizi was the word for owl.

I nodded, wide-eyed. Why did you change your name? I asked eventually. And… your name was Owl?

Zed shrugged. Zizi is a name and a word for owls, the same way Varille is a name and a word for white flowers.

I considered his words. ‘Vallon,’ my own name, didn’t mean anything. I would have liked to be named after a frog, maybe, or a bear. Probably not an owl, though. And definitely not flowers. Why did you change it? I asked again.

Your father said I should take a name like everyone else in Tar-ma-rin, Zed said. To blend in.

You don’t, though, I pointed out. You don’t have yellow hair.

Nor would I want it, Zed replied haughtily, moving to smooth his own dark curls from his face. This motion apparently reminded him of what my father had done. He glanced over at his hands, bare for the first time that I had seen.

Why did Father take them? I asked.

He understood what I was referring to. Mages aren’t allowed to wear gloves, he said, a note of bitterness in his voice.

I balked at this. You wear gloves all the time, I protested. I never see you without.

Your father lets me, Zed said, and then sighed. Usually.

Why can’t you wear gloves? I asked, my curiosity burning. Zed was usually boring and talked only of dull books, but tonight he was full of mysteries.

Zed shot me an irritated look. Has anyone ever told you that you ask too many questions?

Yes. I tried to guess, then, since he refused to tell me. Perhaps it was due to his station, as well as his gift. All gentlemen must wear gloves at dinner, I said, something I’d heard often. My own dinner dress included gloves. Zed, though, wore our house livery like everyone else in my father’s employ. I studied him for a moment and snuck a peek at his hands. I suppose you’re not a gentleman, are you?

A flash of amusement crossed Zed’s face. No. I most certainly am not. He didn’t meet my eye, but instead turned his hands over as though he, too, was fascinated by them. They looked ordinary to me, as far as I could tell. His nails glittered slightly in the firelight, but so did mother’s sometimes, and so did the cook’s when she removed the scales from Shine-fish. Zed was about to speak again when my mother walked in. Behind her trailed my sister, Varille.

Varille’s entrance shocked both myself and Zed into silence, though for very different reasons. She was usually dressed casually, in trousers and a soft tunic, with her hair tied back in plaits. On this night, however, she wore a gown like the ones my mother always did. Full skirts in pale blue dragged across the stones of our hall. Her hair was loose, streaming down her back like a shining gold banner. And, worst of all, an impossibly tight corset bound her into a shape I did not recognize as the girl who had been my playmate for all my life. I was horrified by this change. Zed was not. He blinked, staring for a long moment, before dipping into a low bow. I did the same, more out of confusion than courtesy. Varille laughed as she swept past us, following my mother to the long table in the front of the room. She stopped in front of her usual chair, but did not sit. Instead, she waited, standing tall, her face wrought with anticipation. Our guest was here.

I rushed to stand beside them. Zed did not follow and instead walked to the far wall, where the servants were gathering in a line. Their hushed conversation faltered for a moment as he joined them, though most were not perturbed. I did not understand, or really care about, the hierarchy in our household. Our keep wasn’t large enough to maintain separation between the classes, and the cook joined us at our table to enjoy her handiwork as often as not. Still, I was rather surprised. Zed didn’t normally stand with the servants, but then again, nothing about tonight was usual. I watched curiously as he found a place along the wall.

I knew Zed was not, technically, a member of the household and should not be at the high table before all nobility was seated. It was a minor rule of etiquette, though, and certainly not one I had seen followed in Lyekeep. This guest must be important, whoever they were, for us to observe such distinctions. I did not have to wait long to find out. My father’s booming voice announced them before long.

My dear duchess, Avallia! Vallon. And of course, my lovely Varille. He looked at each of us in turn. Naming us was for the guest’s benefit, I suppose. I am pleased to introduce you to His Grace, Duke Wallen.

The man at his side was stout, but soft looking, with a figure more like a merchant than a noble. Call me Zorge, please! he said good-naturedly. His face was a bit pink, as though he spent too much time in the sun. Zorge Wazzyn, Duke of Wallen! It rhymes, see! Ha! He clapped my father on the shoulder. I expected this to be a trap. Adults often said to call them by their first names, and were never pleased when you did so. I studied him suspiciously as he walked towards the table, wondering if he had the mental capacity for traps. His eyes were flat and blue, and he reminded me of one of our friendly but stupid birding dogs.

As he approached, my mother gave a low curtsy. My sister, too, dipped down. I noticed she went much further than Mother, into an elaborate pose that fully showed off the effects of her corset. It must