StarCrossed

by Elizabeth C. Bunce

  “What do you think it means?” she whispered.

  “I wish I knew.”

  I took the rings, when Meri wasn’t watching, wrestled them from the stiff cold fingers and stuck them inside my gloves. It was just one more thing that didn’t fit — that two dead men were connected somehow with Daul? Who were they?

  The arrow was the symbol of Zet, goddess of royalty and the hunt. Black was the color of Marau, god of death. What did Zet plus Marau make?

  More math than my poor brain could figure out.

  “Maybe it has something to do with hunting,” Meri suggested as we covered the bodies and left. “A guild, or something?”

  “Have you ever seen Daul go hunting?” I asked, knowing full well Daul never left the Lodge if he could help it. Probably because he hadn’t had the benefit of his father’s treatise on the subject. I choked back a half-hysterical laugh.

  “Something to do with the war, maybe?” I said, but we dismissed that as well. The bigger man had been far too young to have fought with Daul and Antoch.

  Well, there was only one answer: I was going to have to ask Daul himself.

  Pox.

  There were workmen in the Lesser Court, so that evening’s entertainments were held in the Armory. Nobody had thought to modernize this room; it was Old Bryn Shaer, every inch: rusting shields and polearms on the stained walls; a massive iron cage of a chandelier; a great model landscape of Llyvraneth, left over from the last days when people had planned wars here. A fire blazed, flanked by life-sized marble Spear-Bearers of Zet, their stone hair flowing over their bare shoulders, naked bodies cleverly concealed behind their oblong shields.

  Eptin Cwalo offered to walk me through the weapons displayed on the walls, but I declined, watching Daul instead. His moon charts were spread before him, but he seemed edgy and cold tonight, reading the fates of his fellow courtiers with less than his usual humor. When he predicted that Marlytt would have a fat husband and fat ugly children, her pale face reddened and her smile grew tight.

  “I’m tired of this game. Let’s have another,” she said softly, pulling her hand away.

  Something in Daul’s face went very hard. He bowed to Lady Lyll and Lord Antoch, who clapped politely, then, to my dismay, he headed in my direction. I looked around desperately — but Cwalo was all the way on the other side of the room, pointing out the features of one of the fencing swords to Phandre and Lord Cardom. I turned to cross back to where the Nemair now chatted with Lord Wellyth, but Daul sidestepped me, cornering me near the map table. From across the room, I saw Phandre’s gaze sharpen.

  “What do you want?” I hissed. “People are staring.”

  He bent over the model landscape, tapping his fingers on its rim. On the map, Gerse was a mass of gray bricks in the south; the river Oss a painted silver ribbon stretching from the city; the Carskadon Mountains, built up with lumps of plaster, rising like the spine of some beast. Purple and green markers made of painted lead sat in the corners of the board, along with tiny matching flags.

  I leaned against the wall, waiting for him to say something. But he ignored me, playing with the figures, placing flags and men across the board — purple on Tratua, western Gelnir, near Breijardarl, matching the markers to the families here at Bryn Shaer. There was something calculating and concentrated about his focus on the map, and I watched his eye draw repeatedly to the southeastern quadrant.

  When Daul still didn’t say anything, I picked up one of the green figures and tossed it into the air, catching it neatly. “What’s that ring you always wear?”

  He looked up sharply. “A sudden interest in me? Perhaps our little game has gone to your head.”

  “Some game,” I snapped, my voice low. “But fair’s fair. I bring you information all the time. Now I want some.”

  “You bring me worthless information!”

  I jumped, and looked to see if anyone had noticed. But everyone else was occupied on the other side of the room, listening to Lord Antoch tell some amusing story. Almost everyone; Meri had turned toward me, brow furrowed with concern, but Marlytt’s hand on her arm turned her back to the party. Daul’s eyes were with mine, watching Antoch across the Armory. But he said, “My ring? Say it’s a token of my commitment.”

  I scowled. “Commitment to what? What’s the arrow mean?”

  He turned back to the table, shifting some pieces on the map board. I watched him, perplexed. Across the room, Marlytt had evidently engaged Lord Sposa in conversation with Meri, pouring wine for both of them. She’d know precisely how to get a man to talk. Maybe I could use my own talent to annoy Daul to crack something open. “What’s the matter? Bad news in the journal?”

  For one cold, deadly moment, I thought he might actually hit me — there in front of everyone else. He gripped the edge of the map table. “Have a care for your tongue, little mouse,” he said in a tight voice. “I fear it will get you in trouble someday.”

  “What did it say?” I pressed — but softly.

  “Nothing. It said nothing. As I believe you mentioned, when you were so forthcoming about admitting you had read it.” Daul took up one of the violet armies and flung it into the center of the map. It skidded on the rough surface and came to a stop at the foot of the bony spine of the Carskadons. “No matter. I know the truth of things, and Antoch does as well. I will just have to find some other way to prove it. He’s the one. I know it.”

  “Celyn, come back to the fire,” Meri called. My head shot around.

  “In a minute,” I called back in a strained voice, then whispered to Daul. “What are you talking about?”

  Daul slowly drew one of the pawns down the southern tip of Gelnir, to a low sea-bordered plain between Gelnir and Kellespau. “Antoch Nemair is the Traitor of Kalorjn.”

  I stared at the armies scattered across Llyvraneth, and tried to make sense of the words Daul had just said. I heard Lord Antoch’s huge, jolly laugh, the clink of glasses raising a toast. “He can’t be,” I said.

  Daul turned on me. “Do not speak of things you cannot possibly understand.”

  “That’s what this is about? You were never after Sarists?”

  Daul looked darkly into the model landscape and its multicolored armies. “Oh, trust me, I am happy with whatever evidence of disloyalty you can find, but as I mentioned, this was a personal interest.”

  It was insane to be having this conversation, out in the open in front of everybody, but maybe Daul was half crazy. And me? Well, that was established.

  “I thought you were after Lord Antoch because he was a Sarist,” I said. “But now you say he betrayed them? I don’t understand.”

  “Everything points to it!” Daul’s normally mea sured voice verged on shrill. He leaned closer, speaking low and harsh. “How else is a man — an avowed Sarist, the left hand of the commander — appointed ambassador to Corlesanne, awarded a lavish mountain estate, allowed to escape the prosecution of his fellows — while the rest of us spend years in exile or prison?”

  “I don’t believe it,” I said, just to fill up the dead, crushing quiet left after Daul’s words. The trouble was, maybe I did. Prizes like Bryn Shaer and a post at a foreign court weren’t things the king normally lavished on his mortal enemies. If Antoch was the traitor, if he had engineered the fall of the Sarists’ last hope of rebellion . . . that might have been a valuable favor indeed for a grateful king.

  “But Lyll told me they were sent overseas for helping you get out of prison.”

  Somehow Daul’s cold gaze grew even icier. “That’s the official story, is it? Don’t believe every thing they tell you, little mouse. I remember that gaol — twelve stinking years of it. Ask Antoch how long he spent there.”

  Laughter drifted closer, and Lord Antoch rose from his spot near the fireplace. “Remy, Remy — leave the poor girl alone. You’ll put her off her dinner.” He crossed the room in a few easy strides and threw a huge arm around Daul, who stiffened. “Celyn, my girl, this snake of a brother of mine isn’t bothering
you, is he?”

  For a moment I felt dizzy. Daul couldn’t be right.

  Could he?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  All evening long I stole glances at Lord Antoch. Was he really a man who would send his own people to their deaths in return for a post at a foreign court and a run-down castle in the mountains? Daul was convinced, but I just didn’t know — Antoch doted on Meri, and there was nothing but love in his gaze for his wife. But that was no good mea sure of what a person might do when pressed hard, or when tempted. And I knew better than anyone not to judge somebody by his relatives.

  Lord Antoch’s best friend was trying to destroy him. The prince insisted he was nobody. The wine merchant was an arms dealer. Lady Lyll was hiding every thing, and Meri was a wizard. There had to be somebody in this castle who was exactly what he seemed, with no treacherous secrets or betrayals to conceal. There had to be.

  And what about me, sneaking around spying, working for Daul? Why could I accept such treachery from Daul — or myself — but it seemed unforgivable in a person like Lord Antoch?

  I was still stewing over it all the next morning when I ducked down to check on the prince.

  “Celyn just-a-maid! You’re just in time for my debut.” Wierolf was sitting on the edge of his bed — in a shirt finally, thank the gods — and he held up his hand. “Wait — stand there.” Very carefully, he pushed himself to standing, wavering only slightly. He took a few tentative steps, then lurched for me, grabbing my wrists.

  “Very impressive,” I said, leading him back to the bed. His color was better, and dressed now, he didn’t look quite so frail. “You’ll be storming the castle in no time.”

  This drew one of Wierolf’s rare frowns. “I don’t think so,” he said quietly.

  “What did Lady Lyllace say when you talked to her?” I asked.

  “Surprisingly little,” he said. “And I scared the other one when I tried to speak to her in Corles.” With a sigh, Wierolf leaned back against his cushions. “What is going on here, Celyn? This place, with its mysterious silent keepers and spare accommodations and its strange little maids who show up in the middle of the night?”

  I sank down as well. “I don’t know.” I thought for a moment. Maybe the missing piece to the puzzle upstairs could help untangle this whole mystery. “Do you know anything about the Battle of Kalorjn?”

  “I’ve studied it, of course. The Sarist and Royalist forces were evenly matched, and the Sarists had the advantage of terrain. By rights they should have carried the day.”

  “I was thinking more about the end of the battle.”

  Wierolf turned, propping himself on his elbow. “The unknown traitor? Well, that’s the great mystery, isn’t it? There are rumors, theories — but only the dead know for certain.”

  “What theories?”

  He shrugged. “Names, suspects — Daul, for one.”

  “Daul — Remy Daul?” I blinked.

  “No, Senim. The commander. There’s no evidence, of course.”

  “Did anyone ever say it might have been Antoch Nemair?”

  He eased back and regarded me carefully, letting out a long, low whistle. “Are you serious?”

  I stared at my hands and gave a shrug.

  “All right,” Wierolf said. “Let’s think about this. The Sarists were defeated because they were given false intelligence about the size and movements of the Royalist troops. Nemair had command over the Sarists’ right flank, which was supposed to protect against a charge coming at them on their seaward side. That charge never came, Nemair’s men never mobilized, so Daul’s forces faced the full brunt of the Royalist attack. By the time Nemair’s men got word, it was too late. More than twenty-five hundred rebels were killed in the battle alone. Vorstig — the Royalist general — had the surviving common foot soldiers rounded up and executed. Their commanders were arrested.”

  I’d heard the rest of that story. “So . . . it was Nemair’s fault? If he’d attacked when he should have —”

  Wierolf turned up his hands. “Who can say? Most people give the blame to the reports he and Commander Daul relied on to plan their strategy. Unfortunately no one has ever been able to determine the source of that information.”

  “But how can they be sure it wasn’t just a mistake?”

  “No. The Royalist attack was too specific — they knew exactly where to strike, and how hard, knowing that a third of their opponents’ forces would be distracted elsewhere. That could only have come from spies within Daul’s camp.”

  I sighed. Maybe it was true.

  The prince was watching me. “Look, I’ve never met the man, and apparently I’m not quite the judge of character I thought I was” — he gestured vaguely toward his wounds — “but every thing I’ve heard of Antoch Nemair would suggest he’s not your man.”

  I was silent, turning that over and over in my mind.

  “Eighteen years is a long time. Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “It does.” I was surprised at the vehemence in my voice.

  Wierolf touched my arm with a cold hand. “Why?”

  “Because it does.” But Wierolf was right. Why did I even care? The Battle of Kalorjn had nothing to do with me. I sighed and tried to explain it, even to myself. “They took me in when — when I left the Celystra. They gave me a home and a post and a —” I faltered. “I just need to know.”

  “Would it change anything? He’d still be the man that took you in.”

  “The truth always changes things.”

  “He might not be the same man he was, eigh teen years ago.”

  I made a skeptical sound. “People don’t change that much.”

  Wierolf lay back against the pillows. “What happened to becoming anyone you want if nobody knows the truth?”

  “That isn’t what I meant.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Because that’s what it sounded like to me.”

  Meri was getting anxious and fussy. For the last several days, she’d been told to stay away from the Sarists’ camp. The weather had been clear, and with no new snow to obscure her tracks leading to and from their little settlement, apparently Reynart felt it too risky for everyone for them to continue to meet, until he sent word that it was safe.

  “Why can’t you take the tunnels?”

  She was actually pacing in front of her tall frosty windows. “Reynart said not to. They’ve gone deeper into the forest for some reason, and they’re not camping in there anymore.”

  That was strange, but Meri didn’t have an explanation for it. Was there something in those tunnels that Reynart and his men didn’t want Meri to see? The bodies, perhaps? That didn’t make sense.

  “I have an idea,” I said — before any such idea was even half formed. “Let’s find out.”

  Meri looked at me blankly. “Find what out?”

  I grinned up at her. “That’s what I want to know.”

  She was a little harder to coax into an adventure than I’d expected, and we ran into an obstacle on the way: Berdal, outside in the snowy courtyard, mounting up on a tall brown horse. He was bundled heavily into his coat and mantle, a hat pulled low to protect his face. He lifted a hand in greeting.

  “Morning, Lady Merista, Celyn. Haven’t seen you much about these days.”

  I pulled my coat closer. “It’s too cold out here. I have a soft post, inside.”

  Berdal grinned. I’d known boys like him all my life — common, plain-speaking lads who didn’t cloak themselves in courtly flattery. Or conspiracy. I missed them.

  “You can keep that,” he said. “I’ll take the fresh air out here any day.” The horse made its own commentary just then and I gave Berdal a look. With a laugh, he said, “It still smells better in the barns, if you ask me.”

  Meri giggled. “I think so too.”

  I glanced at the horse and the heavy saddle packs. “Are you leaving?”

  “It looks like we’re finally getting a string of enough good weather to go on a mail-and-supply run d
own to the inn. I’ll be back in about a week. Want me to carry a letter for you? I can wait.” He smiled at me, wide and friendly, but at the word mail, my stomach clenched.

  “Who’s sending letters?” I tried to sound curious and casual.

  He flipped the saddlebag open and pulled out a packet of papers. I edged nearer, trying to see. “Lady Nemair, that Lord Wellyth, and Sorja from the kitchens. Lady Merista, are you sure you don’t have one to add? Maybe to that Decath cousin of yours?”

  Not Daul. I restrained my relief. “I thought I heard Lord Daul mention a letter to — friends, in the city,” I said. “Did he get that to you?”

  “Nay, I’ve not seen Lord Daul,” Berdal said. “Maybe I should wait —”

  “Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t like to delay you,” I said hastily. But I was confused. “Is — is this the first time mail’s gone out, since the avalanche?”

  “Aye.”

  “And there’s no other way a message could have gotten out, before now?”

  Meri was looking at me strangely. “Celyn, what are you talking about?”

  I glanced at her. “Nothing,” I said firmly, but my thoughts were astir. Why hadn’t Daul sent his report? Did he have another way to get messages in and out of Bryn Shaer? “Let us know when you get back,” I said to Berdal. “We can hand the letters around, so you won’t have to breathe the foul air in the Lodge.”

  Berdal grinned again. “Deal.” He swung up onto the horse and, clicking at it, turned and rode out through the snow.

  We took the outside entrance Meri had shown me before, the one that led from the covered pentice down beneath the Lodge. Today we’d brought a conventional lamp and descended the narrow steps carefully.

  “What are we looking for?” Meri asked. She was clutching my arm, which made it harder to maneuver in the dark, even with the light bouncing all over the low, arched walls.

  “Show me the route you take to meet them.”

  She led me back through the freezing tunnels, and I shone the light into every corner and alcove. After an hour or so, we still hadn’t seen anything suspicious — but I had to admit dragging Meri through dark tunnels wasn’t a terrible way to spend a morning.