Darrick smiled with a whimsical look. “No, you cannot. Nor would I be inclined to follow such a command.”
Law chuckled. “Just the same, Your Grace.”
* * *
“I can’t hear your whispers from here. What did he say?”
“That’s the point of whispers.”
“Well?”
Yesenia cast a nervous glance between her husband and where the guard had stood moments before, beyond the thick steel of the bars. Bars no man could sever with strength alone. Nor even a beast, or even many beasts. She recalled Aiden laughing about it over a dinner party... how hopeless a man was supposed to feel if he ever found himself imprisoned by a Quinlanden.
She stretched her face against the bars, straining to see as far as she could. The sconces lining the walls brightened her view, enough to confirm what she’d hoped. No patrol, for now. Only the guards perched at the bend in the long hall, and they’d been engrossed in their game of cross-and-pile for half the night. And why not, when there was no chance of their prisoners escaping?
Yesenia returned to the half-rotted bench where Corin gaped at her in anticipation. She dropped her voice low. “You remember the old adage I loathe so much?”
Corin half-grinned. “The one about when life gives you coriander?”
“No, no. The other one.”
“Ahh. Good news and bad news? Is that it?”
Yesenia nodded. “We are not alone, Corin. Men from the Westerlands, those who could slip through the notice of the Quinlanden Guard, are on their way, here, to us.”
“But that is great news!” Corin whispered.
“No, for they are few. No more than ten, the guard said.”
“One man is enough to change a kingdom, Yesenia. Think of what the loss of Darrick did to us.”
“Mads and Mortain know.”
The small hint of joy playing at the corner of Corin’s eyes faded. “Of course they do. That’s how our friend in the guard knows.”
She nodded. “Among them... among them is Byrne’s boy. Brandyn.” Yesenia dropped her eyes and inhaled, drawing a long breath. “And my brother, Khallum.”
“Two Reaches standing united against treason! This is good for us. For everyone.”
“They’ll be walking into an ambush, Corin. Brandyn and Khallum will be executed. With them both gone, Mads and Mortain’s victory over the Westerlands and Southerlands will be total. There are others... an army. My brother’s. But they’ll come too late.”
Corin took a while before responding. “Asherley and Byrne have other children. Daughters, but it would not be the first time a woman ruled the Westerlands. And Khallum has sons. Three, yes?”
“Your idealism is beautiful to me, Corin. You remind me of Byrne at times. But it does not serve us now. The loss of two lords would be blows not easily or quickly recovered from.”
Corin gathered his wife’s hands in his. “I refuse to believe hope is lost. Can we not find someone loyal to us to deliver a message? To warn them?”
“He would be killed, and the message would die with him. The Quinlanden Guard has eyes on the camps. It will not be long now.”
“Then what? What do we do?”
“I don’t know yet,” Yesenia said, casting another look at the torchlight flickering upon the walls beyond the bars, casting shadows. “But if Brandyn and Khallum have put their lives on the line for us, we’ll be doing the same when the time comes.”
Corin sank back against the cold wall. “Do you think Maeryn has something to do with this?”
“That little snake? She hasn’t the cunning.”
“Then where is she, Yesenia?” He waved a weary hand. “Waters might have spared her the cells with us, had she not already slipped into a shadow no one can find her in. She’s left Cian alone and abandoned us.”
“She could not have gone far.”
Corin’s eyes went dark in the dim cell. “Unless she had help. Unless she has not been on our side all this time, after all.”
* * *
Drystan felt a hard tug at his neck as he flew back against the hill. Ash flashed him an apologetic look, but the finger at his lips and his wide eyes kept Drystan from crying out his anger.
“A camp,” Ash whispered. “Just beyond the ridge.”
“I didn’t see it.”
“They’ve been clever,” Ash replied. “There are no banners. They don’t want anyone to know who they are, or who they represent. To others passing by, they would appear to be brigands, named for no one.”
“You saw through the ruse quite easily.”
“Because I know these woods.” Ash looked around. “They’re swept, cleaned out with frequency, making it inhospitable to brigands, or anyone with less than good intent.”
“Why do you look concerned? What does that mean?”
Ash looked past him. “I suspect we’ve come upon the first threads of a war, Drystan. If we have spotted these men, Whitechurch will know about them, too.”
“How is that our concern?”
“Who knows how many more camps like this there will be? How far the resistance spreads?”
Drystan readjusted his shirt, pausing to rub the sore spot on his neck. “Hopefully far and wide. It will make our task easier.”
“No,” Ash cried, spinning to face him. “Son. How can we possibly sneak into Whitechurch if they are awakened to a threat? If they are preparing for battle?”
Drystan scoffed. He looked away. All his life he’d wished for a father who showed half the concern Ash was showing now, but now that he had it, it was a hindrance. It hung about him, thick and cloying, like a coat of spiderwebs. “You choose to see it this way. I see it another way.”
Ash held his hands out. “Tell me, then. How do you see it?”
“I see...” Drystan struggled to get the words out. No matter what he said, Ash would pick them apart, attempt to discredit him. He would employ his age and experience, things Drystan couldn’t compete with. “Opportunity. I see a city distracted by coming war, who will not notice two unremarkable men moving about. We look like servants already, in the rags Yseult provided us. Why not become them?”
Ash’s sigh split Drystan’s heart in two. He recognized the sound. It was too close to the one he was so used to from Holden. “We cannot base our plans on something so flimsy.”
Drystan jumped to his feet. He reattached his pack and looked down at Ash. “My plan. And if you don’t like it, don’t agree with it, then you would do well to remember that I do not need you and I can and will do this alone!”
He stormed off ahead, searching for an alternate route around the camp of unknown men.
* * *
Khallum had urged the boy off to sleep, but there’d be none for himself. He’d lied to him. To himself. In a few short hours, they’d sneak into Whitechurch like assassins, an act his imagination had little trouble preparing for him. It was the return he could not see.
In his heart, he knew there’d be no return. Even if Hamish and the Southerland Guard made it on time, Khallum and Brandyn would be in the center of the beast’s belly, surrounded by the promise of their death. The only hope remaining was that they could secure victory before the Guardians deemed their promise spent.
Niall would be ready to take the helm for the Southerlands until his older brother could safely return. Fifteen was almost a man. Khallum had been not much older when he’d taken over from his father. It would only be temporary, and Gwyn would aid him, steer him true. Khallum had never thought much of women as rulers, but he’d left his Reach in his wife’s hands more than once, and he’d never doubted her ability to care for it should the need arise.
She’d never forgive him for not coming back this time. Such was love, he supposed, and he also supposed that he did love her. In his mind, he compared her to the women he could have wed and bed had the king not interceded, and it was an exercise that could not happen without resentment for the crown, but was nonetheless laced with gratitude. She’d made a fine
wife, and an even better mother. If there was another bloodline worthy of running through a Warwick’s veins, the cold-bittered Derehams was it.
He’d done what he could for her. He had the best men leading the Great Families. They would know how to shape either Ransom or Niall to be their next lord, and they’d do it with fealty and love. They’d proffer the widowed Lady Warwick with the honor she had earned, and perhaps, once their new lord had a family of his own, arrange a good second marriage for her.
A soft, but high sound pierced through the night. At first, Khallum thought he’d imagined it. Then it happened a second time. Not a bird. His hand fell to his sword.
When he heard it again, it was accompanied by a single word. “Father.”
Khallum turned toward the boy’s tent. Brandyn was dreaming, then. About Byrne. Khallum had his share of these dreams since his brother was murdered.
He faced the dead fire again, returning to the heaviness of his thoughts. But Brandyn’s cries escalated, and if Khallum didn’t rouse him, the boy would wake the men.
With a groan, he heaved himself to his feet, dusting the dirt off him. He ambled toward the tent and leaned inside.
Brandyn thrashed in his bedroll, drenched in a marriage of sweat and tears. He cried out for his father, and as he did, his hand reached for something unknown.
Khallum leaned down to wake him, but Brandyn’s small hand gripped his and the boy rolled toward him in soft relief. Khallum glanced into the night, then lay next to him.
When he held an arm out, the boy crawled into it, and Brandyn cried no more.
* * *
Hamish had wanted to cut north near Stone Mawr, but Lem Garrick insisted they take the northern path out of Blackpool and go east through the Gap of Ever. Hamish had countered that the Quinlanden Guard would surely be stationed there, as the only passable location along the interior of Fionn’s Pass, but Garrick won. Garrick didn’t have Lord Warwick around to temper his bullishness toward Hamish, and the others supported Garrick.
They’d had some trouble at the gap, just as Hamish had predicted. But no one said aye, just as Strong said. Because Garrick had taken the lead at some point on their way north, it was his men who first discovered and then dealt with the problem. It was Garrick whose name they passed around that evening’s fire, throwing around words like “conqueror,” in earnest while Hamish tore at the tough meat in quiet angst.
He tried not to think about Ryan lying as if lifeless in a bed in a tower. There was no use in it. He couldn’t help his son there or here, and if they didn’t deliver the victory Lord Warwick expected, it would be every son and the daughter in the Reach—the kingdom—who’d be left defenseless.
But he did think of Jesse. It wasn’t like his eldest to linger long on his journeys. He should’ve been home months ago, but instead of worry, what Hamish felt about his long absence was suspicion. Jesse was more than capable of defending himself. There would’ve been word sent to Sandycove if he’d been hurt or killed. Instead, there was nothing. The absence of word. Complete silence.
Whatever trouble he’d found himself in, Hamish only hoped he knew what he was doing.
He pulled out the wrinkled map from his sack, using the splash of moonlight through the forest trees to read the faded ink.
“Garrick reckons a tomorrow evening landing,” Barne Holton said, dropping onto the log beside him.
Hamish quickly folded the map and put it away. “Garrick underestimates his men. We’ll be there by midday, Guardians willing.”
“Ye ken that’s too early, or right on time?”
“I ken we’ll be lucky if it’s not too late,” Hamish barked and went to give his men the last words of the evening.
40
Friendships Birthed of Desperation
Oldwin stood before the man he was forced to call master. But that wasn’t quite right, to call it forced. He’d chosen to call him such, just as he’d chosen his banishment to the sky dungeon for what amounted to half a mortal man’s lifetime. Every choice he’d made had brought him to precisely this moment and would soon lead him to the one he’d done this, all of this, for.
The petulant child swimming in his raiment was making demands. Take me to my wives! I want to see them! Oldwin had perfected his magic over the many years of his life, honed it to precision, but there was no magic adequate for feigning fealty to this wretched creature. Every day he must prostrate himself before the sack of malformed bones was a day he emerged more victorious than the last.
“Your Grace. Tradition mandates we must wait until your wedding day.”
“Did my father?” Eoghan volleyed, all nasally annoyance. “Did his father?”
Oldwin swallowed the bile in his throat and grinned. “Your father and his father knew their brides, for they were Rhiagains. Ravenna and Esmerelda are foreign brides. Marriages made with foreign houses must pass this final test of temptation. For a foreign bride must be chosen for what she brings, not the face she casts upon the world.”
Eoghan sneered. “So you’re saying they’re hideous? You fear I’ll take one look upon them and lose my meal?”
“They are both quite striking, actually. But that is not why you will wed them.”
“Please, Oldwin, proffer me more counsel on my motivations. You offer me so much already.”
Oldwin flexed his fingers at his side, buried in his robe. “Is that not why you exorcised me from the dungeon, to serve counsel?”
“Counsel in the form of visions! I never asked for anything else!” Eoghan spewed, breathless as soon as the words left him. He rolled forward, heaving in exhaustion. “And what visions have you brought me, Oldwin?”
The haggard sister, Correen, put a loving hand upon his shoulder, staying him. Correen was crafty. Not cunning like Assyria, though. Had she been the one at his side, Oldwin would have had to play his game with more care. Correen suspected his motives, but she’d taken no action that would slow him. He’d begun to wonder if she wasn’t silently cheering him forward.
But no. She had shared these suspicions with her brother. Her support of Eoghan’s misgivings was what gave him the courage to speak as he did, even knowing Oldwin’s magic was more powerful than a king’s authority.
Oldwin continued carefully. He would not need this child much longer. “It was my visions that brought your new brides to you, Your Grace. It was perhaps not the Right of Choosing you imagined, but only I could bring a Ravenwood to your bed.”
“Only you?” Eoghan laughed. It faded to a racking cough. “Only you care about Ravenwoods to begin with. What is a Ravenwood to me?”
“Have you forgotten you share a common ancestor? That it is the Ravenwoods you have to blame for quelling the powerful magic in the Rhiagains, leaving you weak and confused and groveling?” Oldwin almost spun time in reverse to take back the words, but the flicker of fear in Eoghan’s face was enough to tell him his lapse in control had nonetheless struck a powerful nerve.
Eoghan looked away, flushed. “I have no care about pasts, or Ravenwoods and Rhiagains. We do not live in the past. We live now. That is what matters.” When he again looked at Oldwin, he was more composed. “I wish to marry them now.”
“On the morrow, Your Grace. All the festivities have been arranged. The day will prove most joyous.”
“What if I don’t want to wait?”
Oldwin sighed. “I suppose I could advise the court there will be no festivities.”
“Why would there not be festivities at my wedding?”
“Brother, you did not want festivities at the Right of Choosing, remember? So perhaps there is no reason to wait, as you say,” Correen said gently. Her eyes were daggers as she coolly regarded Oldwin.
“It would not do to disappoint the court,” Oldwin said. “But... it is your choice, Your Grace. I serve at your command.”
“Fine! Tomorrow!” Eoghan barked, again dissolving into a coughing fit.
“He is not well, Oldwin. Leave us,” Correen commanded.
&nbs
p; All the venom in his veins came to life as he bowed before her for what was hopefully the last time.
For tomorrow, while the king took his new brides, the kingdom would be marching toward chaos.
* * *
Anabella and Wyat were introduced to a young woman named Missy. She flitted through her brief tour of the old keep, breathless and sweaty, giving occasional name to one of the men lying on cots. Anabella felt badly taking her away from her service to them. She could see Wyat felt the same.
But none of these men was Darrick.
“Do you see your man? Look closely, now. A man takes on a different look when he’s fallen on the hard times, least the kind that bring a man here.”
“Missy, ah, I should have mentioned,” Wyat said suddenly. “We are here on behalf of Lord Warwick. He had some especial guests, did he not?”
Missy cocked her head. “Were they? Special? He said they were not.”
Wyat quickly shook his head. “No, not special, that’s not what I meant.”
“I know the men. The men in the tower,” she said. “Come.”
Missy rushed through the overflowing piles of men, oblivious to the stench of rot and decay, and even death, as she made for the center of the room. She lifted her skirts when they reached the spiral staircase, and though there were stairs crumbled and missing, navigated her way up with smooth confidence. Anabella stumbled several paces behind, clutching tightly to Stefan’s small hand. He made like he wanted to run ahead, but she held fast to him. Wyat briefly laid a hand upon her shoulder so she knew he was there, right behind them.
Anabella was out of breath when they reached the top of the tower, and Wyat, too, seemed like he could make fine use of a chair. Not Missy, who spun around and pointed to two doorways. “Tha’ one is empty, all except for some things I been storing there, like cloth for bandages and the like. No space downstairs anymore, ye ken. No one else comes up here ’cept me. Orders from Steward Rutland hisself.”
The Broken Realm Page 45