“What’s wrong with you? Galen? What’s …” Then pausing, then shaking me again, but more gently this time. “Let’s get you out of the rain.”
Lifting his blanket above the both of us, he ushered me toward a grove up the road toward the castle. It was evergreen mostly, so the leaves remained on many of the trees, and the branches of those vallenwoods scattered among the cedars and junipers were thick enough to shelter a party much larger than ours from the downpour.
There we sat, Bayard draping the blanket over two low hanging branches above us, forming a crude lean- to that kept out the weather.
I lay down beneath the blanket, breathing in the old smells of wool and dust and faint rain and sweat and horses. Bayard crouched over me.
“What is it, Bayard?”
“ ‘Sir Bayard.’ Like it or not, you’re back in my employ. There’s not a dry stick or twig in the whole damn grove. Looks like we’ll sit this one out without a fire.”
A look of concern crossed Bayard’s face. He leaned over, placed his hand on my forehead.
“You’re burning up, boy.”
Come to think of it, I was a little stifled, but I had fancied it was only being under blankets and all wrapped against the cold in the first place. I started to beg Bayard to take me back toward the fires of the encampment, where I could warm my feet and where I could mend, but then that didn’t make any sense because my problem was being too hot in the first place and …
I remember Bayard asking, “Now what’s this about Benedict di Caela?”
Then I remember nothing else.
CHAPTER 15
Light washed over my face, and for a moment I thought I was being blinded. I willed myself not to see the light, to suffer the brightness, but then in a blur I saw clouds above me darting in and out of my vision. At first I thought they were moving, those clouds, until I felt hard wood tilting and rocking below me, and I heard the clatter of hooves and the breathing of horses.
I was traveling somewhere under a daylit sky, shadowed by clouds and by birds flying overhead.
Brithelm’s face was above me, too. I heard him speak, and heard Bayard’s voice behind him somewhere, almost indistinguishable from the creaking of wheels and the song of a lark.
I tried to speak, to ask the obvious questions: Where am I?, What happened to me?, and Why all the hushed concern and the fuss?. But Brithelm was saying something to me about resting, relaxing, and his hand on my forehead was as cool and soothing as the night air. Behind him I heard the voices of women, one of which sounded like Enid—that sweet, high music of birds.
I hoped devoutly it was Enid, for the voice brought back the sight of her in my memory and imagining. But the cart passed again into shadow, which in turn passed into great and abiding darkness.
I was in a room somewhere, remotely familiar. A tapestry hung on the far wall, blurred in my adjusting eyes and in candlelight. A face appeared over me, another blur of shadow and color.
Strands of wild hair, disheveled and as red as the red robe.
“He’s waking, Dannelle. Go get the Knights,”
The sound of a door closing softly. I tried to sit up. It was too tiring, and when I tried, the light in the room spun like stars.
“Rest, little brother,” said Brithelm’s voice, cool and soothing. “If you wrestle the fever, it will throw you.
“And besides, it’s a hard task you have coming. I’ve tried to soften it some, explained the whole thing and how sorry you are, to Sir Bayard Brightblade. Argued with Sir Robert and that gentleman in black—”
Gentleman in black!
“—to postpone this … talk, but they would hear none of it. They insisted that we settle the matter now, and the three of them are on their way to these chambers, where they will hear your story.
“Rest now,” Brithelm continued. “You are among friends.”
I closed my eyes and resolved to appear as pathetic as I felt.
I must have dozed, as several voices mingled in the room, changing in pitch and tone and in the shapes of words every time I rose far enough out of sleep to hear them. At last there was movement by my bed and I opened my eyes slowly, pathetically, as though I were being called then and there from the borders of the afterlife.
Bayard stood at my bedside.
“Brithelm says you’re better.”
I nodded as weakly as I could, tried to appear brave but on the wane.
“You have other guests. I have urged them to wait for your recovery, as has your brother Brithelm, but Sir Gabriel insists that the wedding go on as planned. Nonetheless, Sir Robert di Caela wants to talk to you. And he’s brought with him Sir Gabriel, who insists that he’s never seen you before in his life. Much less transacted with you.
“You know, Galen, that I haven’t the faintest idea whether you know something, or you’re lying, or you’ve dreamed all of this up out of fever and wine and guilt.
“Let’s just say I have to trust you now.”
He laid his hand on his sword.
“And you can trust me, Galen Pathwarden. If what you speak is the truth, and what you say angers this Gabriel Androctus or Benedict di Caela or whatever infernal name he goes by or chooses next, rest assured that while Bayard Brightblade breathes, the man will not harm you.”
“That’s reassuring, sir. As long as you breathe.”
Bayard laughed softly, then called over his shoulder,
“Let the guests in, Brithelm.”
They stood around me as though they were on vigil. Somber, silent, they heard the story from its inception in the moat house through the swamp and the mountains and my surprising discovery here at Castle di Caela.
Androctus was disturbingly calm, hearing my accusations as though they were imagined out of delirium or had to do with someone else. He even looked touched when I talked about what happened to Agion in the mountains and couldn’t go on for a minute. So I wondered until Gabriel Androctus spoke. For it was that nightmare voice that had haunted me since the moat house—all sweet and smooth and ruinous.
“This young man has been through terrible things,” he said warmly. “No wonder that such hardships have … clouded his reason, made him see enemies where no enemies are. If there is anything I can do to make him more comfortable, I should be more than happy to do so after the ceremony.”
Sir Robert glanced sidelong at his future son-in-law—a look that held no approval.
“But of course, Sir Gabriel,” he sighed, “the question becomes that ceremony. For if there is an ounce of truth in what the boy says—”
“That I am Benedict di Caela?” Sir Gabriel interrupted incredulously, then burst into loud and terrible laughter. “There’s too much malice in you, Sir Robert. You’ve been wounded too long by the curse your forefathers inflicted.”
He smiled wickedly and leaned against the tapestry.
“But let us be fair. Does the boy have an ounce of evidence beyond his fevered testimony?”
Bayard and Sir Robert looked at me.
My thoughts raced.
Evidence? From the mountains? The swamp?
Nothing.
From …
“Bayard, please bring me my cloak. It’s over there by the fire.”
Bayard did as I asked, never taking his eyes from Gabriel Androctus.
Who looked puzzled now, and maybe a little worried.
Bayard handed me the cloak, warmed and partially dried on the hearth, but still wet in its folds from last night’s drenching downpour. I coughed at the smell of wet wool, then fumbled through the pockets, past the Calantina dice, past the tooled gloves …
“Here they are!”
Sir Bayard and Sir Robert leaned forward eagerly. Sir Gabriel took a short, tentative step toward the door.
“These stones!” I proclaimed, opening the soggy drawstring of the bag, letting the half dozen opals tumble onto the bed, where they stood out soft and white and lovely against the rough bedclothes.
“So?” Sir Gabriel shot bac
k quickly. “This is some sort of incriminating evidence?”
“I should say it is! These are the very opals you bribed me with when this whole unsavory business began. When you wanted Sir Bayard’s armor back in my father’s moat house, when you took it and performed the gods know what outrage with it—”
“Enough, Galen,” Bayard cautioned. “You’ve made your point. Does this persuade you, Sir Robert?”
“Not unless he’s a bigger fool than I think he is,” snapped Sir Gabriel, as Sir Robert leaned over the bed, picked up one of the opals, and held it to the light. “How many places, I ask, could a boy of Galen Pathwarden’s … proclivities have ‘discovered’ a purse filled with semiprecious stones?”
“What’s this about being a ‘bigger fool than you think I am,’ Androctus?” Sir Robert snapped back, reddening. “Just how big a damn fool do you think I am, you sable-robed prima donna!” he roared, and Bayard leaped between the two men, parting them.
Androctus stepped once more toward the door. “You misunderstand me, sir,” he soothed. “I was only saying that the lad might have found these anywhere, and the fact that they were on his person should not lead us to the conclusion that I bribed him with stones.”
Sir Robert recovered his calm and his dignity. He spoke coldly, directly.
“But these are glain opals, Sir Gabriel. From Estwilde. Found only in Estwilde, mined only near the Throtyl Gap.”
“Where Benedict di Caela fell!” Bayard exclaimed.
“Well, not exactly,” I interrupted. “Benedict di Caela fell in the pass at Chaktamir …”
“How do you know that?” exclaimed Sir Robert eagerly, spinning to face me so rapidly that he lost his balance and toppled over the bed, scattering the opals. “That’s the part of the story …”
“That the di Caelas hide?” interrupted Androctus, his dark eyes bright with fury, but his voice surprisingly level all of a sudden, even quiet. “And why do they hide that part of the story, Sir Robert? Why, because the whole sorry tale is brimming with villains, is it not? And not only the oft-maligned Benedict.”
He turned slowly, fingered the edge of the tapestry. It was a charming picture of a hunt, five Knights on horseback, each bearing the recognizable di Caela profile.
With a quick step, Androctus stood by the center of the tapestry, pointing at the foremost mounted figure. “Gabriel di Caela the Elder disinherited a son who, by all rights, should have been the di Caela in the generation that followed.”
The figure on the tapestry smoldered, burning slowly and smokelessly. We all gaped, dumbfounded, then considered our options. Sir Robert stepped toward Gabriel, then thought better of it. Bayard’s hand went to his sword, waiting for Gabriel to make the first move.
As though the tapestry were a map and he was giving a history lecture, Gabriel’s hand moved to the hindmost rider. “Then Gabriel di Caela the Younger amassed an army against his disinherited brother, defeating that brother in a battle at the Throtyl Gap, then hounding him westward over the plains of Neraka until they both reached Chaktamir, the high pass, and there …”
The figure of Gabriel the Younger caught fire in the same slow flame.
“Enough!” shouted Robert di Caela, and then more calmly. “And how do you know this history, Sir Gabriel?”
“Oh, common knowledge,” Sir Gabriel smiled. “And common gems, too, even if they are the glain opals of Estwilde. I mean, the boy’s dice are from Estwilde, too, and no burglar—”
“What dice are those, Sir Gabriel?” Bayard shot back. “How is it that you’ve never met Galen before, and yet you’re familiar with the contents of his pockets?”
Androctus paused, stared at me.
Within the black pupils of those eyes glimmered a red fire, banked but unmistakably there in all its evil and evil intent. The fire smoldered, went black, and the dark Knight turned calmly to Bayard.
“His brother,” Androctus explained. “Who is it … Alfric Pathwarden? He told me of Galen’s superstition last night as he gloated at the banquet. Despicable little chap.”
“Pretty thin, Sir Gabriel,” Sir Robert stated dryly. “It does not satisfy our uncertainty. It seems we have no choice but to postpone the wedding another week. I regret the inconvenience to all the guests planning to attend, but the delay is unavoidable as we seek for the truth in this murky matter.”
“The truth?” Sir Gabriel asked in outrage. “What do you know of the truth?” He turned from the tapestry, folded his arms in front of him, and glared at Sir Robert.
“The truth, quite frankly, is that I do not like you, Sir Gabriel Androctus,” spat Sir Robert, his face gloriously red beneath the silver of his moustache and hair. “And I am still alive and lord of this castle, which I shall pass on to whomever I damn well please. I may lose a little face in the matter, but it’ll be worth it if you are Benedict di Caela. Even if you are not, it would almost be worth going back on my word just to see the look on your face!”
A cold wind swept through the room. Mist rose out of the floor, and the tapestry flapped on the wall. Sir Gabriel stood taller, until he seemed to tower over Bayard and Sir Robert, who both were startled, stepping back from the strange, transforming figure in front of them.
Who spoke in loud tones that shattered the glass in the window, sending me burrowing into my blankets.
There in the darkness I heard a scuffling, the sound of fabric tearing, the shivering music of more glass breaking. And over it all, the resonant voice of the Scorpion.
“The truth, Sir Robert, is that once again you are wresting my birthright from me! And this after I played by the rules! After I fought fairly and danced in the lists with all your princes and popinjays, raising my visor and proffering lances at the beck and call of a brassy Solamnic trumpet!
“Oh, your Knights are in love with the sound of honor, the mouthings and motions of the old school, but with all of this posturing you seize what is rightfully mine.
“You have done me great injury, Robert di Caela!” he screamed, and I heard the sound of something else shattering.
“But nothing …”
His voice descended into quiet, into a cheerful, commonplace tone that was more frightening by far than the screaming of a moment before.
“Nothing compared to the injury I shall do you.”
Sir Robert cried out in rage. I heard the sound of furniture falling. I burrowed out toward the light and peeked through the blankets just in time to see the Scorpion wheel away from a charging Sir Robert and sprint for the door my brother Brithelm blocked. Halfway to the door he paused, wheeled once more in his tracks, and quickly, with a strange, awkward gait like a grounded raptor, leaped toward the broken window and out, his cloak catching and tearing on a jagged claw of glass near the base of the sill.
Bayard sprang to the window and looked out and down. He turned back to us and shrugged.
“Disappeared from the face of the earth,” he declared flatly.
Sir Robert drew his sword and split the back of the one chair standing upright in the room.
Brithelm sat on the edge of the bed and chattered as I stood by the fireplace and tuned the lute he had brought me.
“What a wonderful stroke of fortune, was it not, that the one most capable of taking care of you in your illness was your long-lost brother, with whom you you had reunited only an hour or so before you needed him direly?”
“Yes, Brithelm,” I responded tactfully, politely. “I’d have to say there was tremendous good fortune all around in this matter. Is this”—referring to the lute—“in tune?”
“I am sure it’s in tune with something, little brother. I do not believe it’s in tune with itself.”
I sighed and returned to tuning, following the old gnomish philosophy: “When in doubt about the pitch, tighten the string.”
“What’s keeping you here, anyway, Brithelm?” I asked. “I thought you were secluded for good, intent on becoming some kind of swamp saint.”
He shifted on the bed, sto
od, and walked toward the fireplace, where he stood by me, warming his hands at the red coals.
“Seclusion it was, little brother, but I had to return to the world in order to answer a brother in need.
“I am here as a character reference for Alfric in his suit for the hand of the Lady Enid di Caela,” Brithelm announced serenely, and a string broke as I tuned it far too tightly, whined and ricocheted and whipped against my hand. Brithelm started at the noise.
“Character reference? For Huma’s sake, Brithelm, it’s nearly impossible to find any character in our brother, much less to vouch for it. How in the world did he wrangle you into such a business?”
I stared hard at Brithelm.
“Well, I could tell that all his talk of heroics was only talk, but after all, Father had sent him. Alfric told me that the prospect of being wed to the Lady Enid dwelt with him night and day. He appealed to Father to perform the emergency Knighthood ceremony, which, of course, allowed him to enter the tournament—”
“Wait a moment, Brithelm. ‘The emergency Knighthood ceremony’?”
“You know more about it than I do, Galen. You studied the Solamnic codes while I turned to theology.
“But isn’t the ceremony a dispensation that the Order grants on the eve of a tournament in which the husband of a daughter of an Early Family is to be chosen? Young lads not yet squires but intending to be are allowed to forego squirehood altogether, moving straight to the ceremony which Father performed in our absence at the moat house, making Alfric a Knight and thereby eligible to marry Enid di Caela.”
“Is that what Alfric told you about the ceremony, Brithelm?”
It was simply the worst lie I had ever heard—not the most cruel, the most base, the most foul, but surely the most stupid. There were a dozen places within this castle—as many as there were Knights—where Brithelm could turn and discover there was no such thing as an “emergency Knighthood ceremony.” Something was approaching shore in Alfric’s brain. Swimming in loneliness, that half-drowned idea had sight of land.
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