“Come,” Brind’Amour said at length, “let us see what niceties Paragor’s palace has to offer to four weary travelers.”
CHAPTER 27
DIPLOMACY
LUTHIEN DIDN’T KNOW how to approach her. She sat quiet and very still on the bed in the room she had commandeered, across the hall and down one door from Duke Paragor’s bedchamber. She had let him in without argument, but also without enthusiasm.
So now the young Bedwyr stood by the closed door, studying Katerin O’Hale, this woman he had known since he was a boy, and yet whom he had never really seen before. She had cleaned up from the fight and wore only a light satin shift now, black and lacy, that she had found in a wardrobe. It was low cut, and really too small for her, riding high on her smooth legs.
An altogether alluring outfit on one as beautiful as Katerin, but there was nothing inviting about the way the woman sat now, back straight, hands resting in her lap, impassive, indifferent.
She had not been wounded badly in the fight and had not suffered at the hands of Duke Paragor. No doubt the abduction had been traumatic, but certainly Katerin had been through worse. Since the fight, though, after those first few moments of elation, the woman had become quiet and distant. She had reacted to Luthien as her savior for just a moment, then moved away from him and kept away from him.
She was afraid, Luthien knew, and probably just as afraid that he would come to her this night as that he would not. Until this moment, Luthien had not truly considered the implications of his relationship with Siobhan. Katerin’s jealousy, her sudden outburst that night at the Dwelf, had been an exciting thing for Luthien, a flattering thing. But those outbursts were gone now, replaced by a resignation in the woman, a stealing of her spirit, that Luthien could not stand to see.
“I care for Siobhan,” he began, searching for some starting point. Katerin looked away.
“But not as I love you,” the young man quickly added, taking a hopeful stride forward.
Katerin did not turn back to him.
“Do you understand?” Luthien asked.
No response.
“I have to make you understand,” he said emphatically. “When I was in Montfort . . . I needed . . .”
He paused as Katerin did turn back, her green eyes rimmed with tears; her jaw tightened.
“Siobhan is my friend and nothing more,” Luthien said.
Katerin’s expression turned sour.
“She was more than my friend,” Luthien admitted. “And I do not regret . . .” Again he paused, seeing that he was going in the wrong direction. “I do regret hurting you,” he said softly. “And if I have done irreparable harm to our love, then I shall forever grieve, and then all of this, the victories and the glory, shall be a hollow thing.”
“You are the Crimson Shadow,” Katerin said evenly.
“I am Luthien Bedwyr,” the young man corrected. “Who loves Katerin O’Hale, only Katerin O’Hale.”
Katerin did not blink, did not offer any response, verbal or otherwise. A long, uncomfortable moment passed, and then Luthien, defeated, turned toward the door.
“I am sorry,” he whispered, and went out into the hall.
He was down at the other end, nearing his door, when Katerin called out his name behind him. He turned and saw her standing there, just outside of her door, tall and beautiful and with a hint of a smile on her fairest of faces.
He moved back to her slowly, guardedly, not wanting to push her too far, not wanting to scare her away from whatever course she had chosen.
“Don’t go,” she said to him, and she took his hand and pulled him close. “Don’t ever go.”
From a door across the hall, barely cracked open, a teary-eyed Oliver watched the scene. “Ah, to be young and in Princetown in the spring,” the sentimental halfling said as he closed his door after Luthien and Katerin had disappeared.
The halfling waited a moment, then opened the door again and exited his room, dressed in his finest traveling clothes and with a full pack over his shoulder, for though it was night, Oliver had a meeting with Brind’Amour, and then a long, but impossibly quick, road ahead.
The next morning, the proud Princetown garrison marched out of the city to much fanfare. The long line moved swiftly, out to the east and south, meaning to swing through the easy trails of Glen Durritch and then turn north to Malpuissant’s Wall, where they would put down the rebels.
But the rebels were not at the wall. They were waiting, entrenched in the higher ground of the glen, and the Princetown garrison never made it out the other side.
The length of the cyclopian line was barraged with missile fire, elvish bowstrings humming, each archer putting three arrows in the air before the first had ever hit its mark. After the first few terrible moments, the cyclopians tried to form up into defensive position, and the Riders of Eradoch came rushing down upon them, cutting great swaths through their lines, heightening the confusion.
Then there was no defense, no organized counterattack, and the slaughter became wholesale. Some cyclopians tried to run out the eastern end of the glen, but the jaws of the fierce Eriadoran army closed over them. Others, near the back of the long line, had an easier time getting out of the glen’s western end, but they found yet another unpleasant surprise awaiting them, for in the mere hour they had been out of the city, an army of dwarfs had encircled Princetown.
Not a single cyclopian got back to the city’s gates that fateful morning.
Greensparrow shifted in his seat, a smile painted on his face, trying to appear at ease and comfortable, though the high-backed and stiff, stylish Gascon chair was anything but comfortable. The Avon king had to keep up appearances, though. He was in Caspriole, in southwestern Gascony, meeting with Albert deBec Fidel, an important dignitary, one of the major feudal lords in all of Gascony.
For some reason that Greensparrow could not understand, deBec Fidel had turned the conversation to events in Eriador, which Greensparrow truly knew little about. As far as the vacationing king of Avon was aware, Belsen’Krieg was in Montfort, though the last message from one of his underling wizards, Duchess Deanna Wellworth of Mannington, had hinted at some further trouble.
“What do you mean to do?” deBec Fidel asked in his thick accent, his blunt question catching Greensparrow off his guard. Normally deBec Fidel was a subtle man, a true Gascon dignitary.
“About the rebels?” the Avon king replied incredulously, as though the question hardly seemed worth the bother of answering.
“About Eriador,” deBec Fidel clarified.
“Eriador is a duchy of Avon,” Greensparrow insisted.
“A duchy without a duke.”
Greensparrow controlled himself enough not to flinch. How had deBec Fidel learned of that? he wondered. “Duke Morkney failed me,” he admitted. “And so he will be replaced soon enough.”
“After you replace the duke of Princetown?” deBec Fidel asked slyly.
Greensparrow gave no open response, except that his features revealed clearly that he had no idea what the lord might be speaking about.
“Duke Paragor is dead,” deBec Fidel explained. “And Princetown—ah, a favorite city of mine, so beautiful in the spring—is in the hands of the northern army.”
Greensparrow wanted to ask what the man was talking about, but he realized that deBec Fidel would not have offered that information if he had not gotten it from reliable sources. Greensparrow’s own position would seem weaker indeed if he pretended that he did not also know of these startling events.
“The entire Princetown garrison was slaughtered on the field, so it is said,” deBec Fidel went on. “A complete victory, as one-sided as any I have ever heard tell of.”
Greensparrow didn’t miss the thrill, and thus, the threat, in deBec Fidel’s voice, as though the man was enjoying this supremely. An emissary from Eriador had gotten to the man, the wizard-king realized, probably promising him trade agreements and free port rights for Caspriole’s considerable fishing fleet. The allianc
e between Avon and Gascony was a tentative thing, a temporary truce after centuries of countless squabbles and even wars. Even now, much of Greensparrow’s army was away in lands south of Gascony, fighting beside the Gascons, but the king did not doubt that if Eriador offered a better deal concerning the rich fishing waters of the Dorsal Sea, the double-dealing Gascons would side with them.
What had started as a riot in Montfort was quickly becoming a major political problem.
Behind one of the doors of that very room, his ear pressed against the keyhole, Oliver deBurrows listened happily as deBec Fidel went on, speaking to Greensparrow of the benefits of making a truce with the rebels, of giving Eriador back to Eriador.
“They are too much trouble,” the feudal lord insisted. “So it was when Gascony ruled Avon. That is why we built the wall, to keep the savages in the savage north! It is better for all that way,” deBec Fidel finished.
Oliver’s smile nearly took in his ears. As an ambassador, a Gascon who knew the ways of the southern kingdom’s nobles, the halfling had done his job perfectly. The taking of Princetown might nudge Greensparrow in the direction of a truce, but the not-so-subtle hint that mighty Gascony might favor the rebels in this matter, indeed that the Gascons might even send aid, would surely give the wizard-king much to consider.
“Shall I have your room prepared?” Oliver heard deBec Fidel ask after a long moment of uncomfortable silence.
“No,” Greensparrow replied sharply. “I must be on my way this very day.”
“All the way back to Carlisle,” Oliver snickered under his breath. The halfling flipped an amber gemstone in his hand, agreeing with Greensparrow’s sentiments, thinking that it might be time for him, too, to be on his way.
CHAPTER 28
THE WORD
LUTHIEN AND KATERIN sat astride their mounts on a hill overlooking the shining white-and-pink marble of Princetown. The sun was low in the eastern sky, beaming past them, igniting the reflected fires along the polished walls of the marvelous city. In the famed Princetown zoo, the exotic animals were awakening to the new day, issuing their roars and growls, heralding the sunrise.
Other than those bellowing sounds, the city was quiet and calm, and the panic that had begun after the news that Duke Paragor was slain and the garrison slaughtered had settled.
“Brind’Amour told the Princetowners that neither the Eriadoran nor the dwarfish army would enter the city,” Luthien remarked. “They trust in the old mage.”
“They have no choice but to trust in him,” Katerin answered. “We could march into the city and kill them all in a single day.”
“But they know we will not,” Luthien said firmly. “They know why we have come.”
“They are not allies,” Katerin reminded him. “And if they had the strength to chase us away, they would do so, do not doubt.”
Luthien had no reply; he knew that she was right. Even though he knew of Brind’Amour’s intention of retreating back to Eriador, Luthien had hoped that, after the massacre in Glen Durritch and if the folk of Princetown embraced the Eriadoran cause, they might continue this war, indeed might take it all the way to Carlisle. It had been as Oliver had predicted on that day of planning the attack. The Princetowners were calm now, trusting, praying that the threat to their personal safety was ended, but they made no pledges of allegiance to the Eriadoran flag.
“And know, too,” Katerin said grimly, pounding home her point, “that our army will indeed enter the city and lay waste to any who oppose us if we find another of Greensparrow’s armies marching north to do battle.”
Luthien hardly heard the words, because he had not wanted to hear them, and also because he noticed Oliver upon Threadbare, riding up the hill to join them. Also, to the left, the south, and still very far away, Luthien noticed the expected entourage approaching the captured city. Several coaches moved in a line, all streaming pennants, fronted and flanked by cyclopians upon ponypigs, the one-eyes smartly dressed in the finest regalia of the Praetorian Guard. Luthien did not recognize all of the pennants, but he picked out the banner of Avon and figured that the rest were the crests of the southern kingdom’s most important families, and probably the banners of the six major cities, as well. Most prominent among the line, along with the banner of Avon, was a blue pennant showing huge hands reaching out to each other across a gulf of water.
“Mannington, I think,” Katerin remarked, watching the same show and picking out the same, prominent banner.
“Another duke?” Luthien asked. “Come to parley or work foul magic?”
“Duchess,” came a correction from below as Oliver hustled his pony toward the pair. “Duchess Wellworth of Mannington. She will speak for Greensparrow, who is still in Gascony.”
“Where have you been?” Luthien and Katerin asked together, for neither had seen the halfling in the five days since Duke Paragor was dispatched.
Oliver chuckled quietly, wondering if they would even believe him. He had used Brind’Amour’s magical tunnel to cross a thousand miles, and then a thousand miles back again. He had met with dignitaries, some of the most important men in Gascony, and had even, on the occasion of passing the man in the hall, tipped his great hat to King Greensparrow himself! “It was time for me to go home!” the foppish halfling roared cryptically, and he would say no more, and Luthien and Katerin, too involved in speculating about the meeting that would soon take place, did not press the point.
Luthien had wanted to attend that parley, but Brind’Amour had frowned upon the notion, reminding the young Bedwyr that the coming negotiator was probably a wizard and would be able to recognize the young man, perhaps, or at least to relay information about Luthien to the king in the south. As far as Greensparrow and his cronies were concerned, Brind’Amour realized that Eriador would be better served if the Crimson Shadow remained a figure of mystery and intrigue.
So Luthien had agreed to stay out of the city and out of the meeting. But now, watching the line of coaches disappearing behind the gray granite wall, the young Bedwyr wished he had argued against Brind’Amour more strongly.
By all measure, Duchess Deanna Wellworth was a beautiful woman, golden hair cut to shoulder length and coiffed neatly, flipped to one side and held in place by a diamond-studded pin. Though she was young—certainly she had not seen thirty winters—her dress and manner were most elegant, sophisticated, but Brind’Amour sensed the power and the untamed, wild streak within this woman. She was an enchantress, he knew, and a powerful one, and she probably used more than her magic to get men into difficult situations.
“The fleet?” she asked abruptly, for from the moment she had sat down at the long, oak table, she had made it clear that she wanted this parley concluded as quickly as possible.
“Scuttled,” Brind’Amour answered without blinking.
Deanna Wellworth’s fair features, highlighted by the most expensive makeup, but not heavily painted in typical Avon fashion, turned into a skeptical frown. “You said we would deal honestly,” she remarked evenly.
“The fleet is anchored near to the Diamondgate,” Brind’Amour admitted. The old wizard drew himself up to his full height, shoulders back and jaw firm. “Under the flag of Eriador free.”
His tone told Wellworth beyond any doubt that Greensparrow would not get his ships back. She hadn’t really expected Eriador to turn them over, anyway. “The Praetorian Guards held captive on that rock of an island?” she asked.
“No,” Brind’Amour answered simply.
“You hold near to three thousand prisoners,” Wellworth protested.
“They are our problem,” Brind’Amour replied.
Deanna Wellworth slapped her hands on the polished wood of the table and rose to leave, signaling to the Praetorian Guards flanking her. But then the other negotiator across the table from her, a blue-bearded dwarf, cleared his throat loudly, a not-so-subtle reminder of the additional force camped in the mountains, not far away. Princetown was lost, and the enemy was entrenched in force, and if an agreem
ent could not be reached here, as Greensparrow had instructed, Avon would find itself in a costly war.
Deanna Wellworth sat back down.
“What of the cyclopian prisoners taken in Glen Durritch?” she asked, her voice edged in desperation. “I must bring some concession back to my king!”
“You are getting back the city,” Brind’Amour said.
“That was known before I was sent north,” Deanna protested. “The prisoners?”
Brind’Amour looked at Shuglin and gave a slight chuckle, an indication of agreement, and he explained with a wide and sincere smile, “We have no desire to march a thousand one-eyes back into Eriador!”
Deanna Wellworth nearly laughed aloud at that, and her expression caught Brind’Amour somewhat off his guard. It was not relief that fostered her mirth, the wizard suddenly realized, but agreement. Only then did the old wizard begin to make the connection. Mannington had always been Avon’s second city, behind Carlisle, and a seat of royalty-in-waiting.
“Wellworth?” Brind’Amour asked. “Was it not a Wellworth who sat upon Avon’s throne, before Greensparrow, of course?”
All hint of a smile vanished from Deanna’s fair face. “An uncle,” she offered. “A distant uncle.”
Her tone told the keen-minded wizard that there was much more to this one’s tale. Deanna had been in line for the throne, no doubt, before Greensparrow had taken it. How might she feel about this rogue wizard who was now her king? Brind’Amour dismissed the thoughts; he had other business now, more pressing and more important for his Eriador.
The Crimson Shadow Page 59