The Viscount and the Witch

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “So what you thinking, Will?” scar-face asked.

  “I’m thinking maybe we should clear the brush and let them ride through.”

  “What? Why? There’s five of us and just two of them,” flat-nose pointed out.

  “But they’re Riyria.”

  “So what?”

  “So, my associates up north—they ain’t stupid, and they told everyone never to touch these two. And my associates ain’t exactly the squeamish types. If they say to avoid them, there’s a good reason.”

  Flat-nose looked at them again with a critical eye. “Okay, but how do you know these two guys are them? You just gonna take their word for it?”

  Will nodded toward Hadrian. “Look at the swords he’s carrying. A man wearing one—maybe he knows how to use it, maybe not. A man carries two—he probably don’t know nothing about swords, but he wants you to think he does. But a man carrying three swords—that’s a lot of weight. No one’s gonna haul that much steel around unless he makes a living using them.”

  Hadrian drew two swords from his sides in a single elegant motion. He flipped one around, letting it spin against his palm once. “Need to get a new grip on this one. It’s starting to fray again.” He looked at Will. “Shall we get on with this? I believe you were about to rob us.”

  The thieves shot uncertain glances to each other.

  “Will?” the girl asked. She was still holding the bow taut but looked decidedly less confident.

  “Let’s clear the brush out of their way and let them pass,” Will said.

  “You sure?” Hadrian asked. “This nice man with the busted nose seems to have his heart set on getting a sword.”

  “That’s okay,” flat-nose said, looking up at Hadrian’s blades as the moonlight glinted off the mirrored steel.

  “Well, if you’re sure.”

  All five nodded and Hadrian sheathed his weapons.

  Will planted his sword in the dirt and waved the others over as he hurried to clear the barricade of branches blocking the roadway.

  “You know, you’re doing this all wrong,” Royce told them.

  The thieves stopped and looked up, concerned.

  Royce shook his head. “Not clearing the brush—the robbery. You picked a nice spot. I’ll give you that. But you should have come at us from both sides.”

  “And, William—it is William, isn’t it?” Hadrian asked.

  The man winced and nodded.

  “Yeah, William, most people are right-handed, so those coming in close should approach from the left. That would’ve put us at a disadvantage, having to swing across our bodies at you. Those with bows should be on our right.”

  “And why just one bow?” Royce asked. “She could have only hit one of us.”

  “Couldn’t even have done that,” Hadrian said. “Did you notice how long she held the bow bent? Either she’s incredibly strong—which I doubt—or that’s a homemade greenwood bow with barely enough power to toss the arrow a few feet. Her part was just for show. I doubt she’s ever launched an arrow.”

  “Have too,” the girl said. “I’m a fine marksman.”

  Hadrian shook his head at her with a smile. “You had your forefinger on top of the shaft, dear. If you had released, the feathers on the arrow would have brushed your finger and the shot would have gone anywhere but where you wanted it to.”

  Royce nodded. “Invest in crossbows. Next time stay hidden and just put a couple bolts into each of your targets’ chests. All this talking is just stupid.”

  “Royce!” Hadrian admonished.

  “What? You’re always saying I should be nicer to people. I’m trying to be helpful.”

  “Don’t listen to him. If you do want some advice, try building a better barricade.”

  “Yeah, drop a tree across the road next time,” Royce said. Waving a hand toward the branches, he added, “This is just pathetic. And cover your faces for Maribor’s sake. Warric isn’t that big of a kingdom and people might remember you. Sure Ballentyne isn’t likely to bother tracking you down for a few petty highway robberies, but you’re gonna walk into a tavern one day and get a knife in your back.” Royce turned to William. “You were in the Crimson Hand, right?”

  Will looked startled. “No one said nothing about that.” He stopped pulling on the branch he was working on.

  “Didn’t need to. The Hand requires all guild members to get that stupid tattoo on their necks.” Royce turned to Hadrian. “It’s supposed to make them look tough, but all it really does is make it easy to identify them as thieves for the rest of their lives. Painting a red hand on everyone is pretty stupid when you think about it.”

  “That tattoo is supposed to be a hand?” Hadrian asked. “I thought it was a little red chicken. But now that you mention it, a hand does make more sense.”

  Royce looked back at Will and tilted his head to one side. “Does kinda look like a chicken.”

  Will clamped a palm over his neck.

  After the last of the brush was cleared, William asked, “Who are you, really? What exactly is Riyria? The Hand never told me. They just said to keep clear.”

  “We’re nobody special,” Hadrian replied. “Just a couple of travelers enjoying a ride on a cool autumn’s night.”

  “But seriously,” Royce said. “You need to listen to us if you’re going to keep doing this. After all, we’re going to take your advice.”

  “What advice?”

  Royce gave a gentle kick to his horse and started forward on the road again. “We’re going to visit the Earl of Chadwick, but don’t worry—we won’t mention you.”

  In his hands Archibald Ballentyne held the world, conveniently contained within fifteen stolen letters. Each parchment had been penned with meticulous care in a fine, elegant script. He could tell the writer believed that the words were profound and that their meaning conveyed a beautiful truth. Archibald felt the writing was drivel, yet he agreed with the author that they held a value beyond measure. He took a sip of brandy, closed his eyes, and smiled.

  “Milord?”

  Reluctantly Archibald opened his eyes and scowled at his master-at-arms. “What is it, Bruce?”

  “The marquis has arrived, sir.”

  Archibald’s smile returned. He carefully refolded the letters, tied them in a stack with a blue ribbon, and returned them to his safe. He closed its heavy iron door, snapped the lock in place, and tested the seal with two sharp tugs on the unyielding bolt. Then he headed downstairs to greet his guest.

  When Archibald reached the foyer, he spied Victor Lanaklin waiting in the anteroom. He paused for a moment and watched the old man pacing back and forth. Watching him brought Archibald a sense of satisfaction. While the marquis enjoyed a superior title, the man had never impressed the earl. Perhaps Victor had once been lofty, intimidating, or even gallant, but all his glory had been lost long before, shrouded under a mat of gray hair and a hunched back.

  “May I offer you something to drink, Your Lordship?” a mousy steward asked the marquis with a formal bow.

  “No, but you can get me your earl,” he commanded. “Or shall I hunt for him myself?”

  The steward cringed. “I’m certain my master will be with you presently, sir.” The servant bowed again and hastily retreated through a door on the far side of the room.

  “Marquis!” Archibald called out graciously as he made his entrance. “I’m so pleased you have arrived—and so quickly.”

  “You sound surprised,” Victor replied with a sharp voice. Shaking a wrinkled parchment clasped in his fist, he continued, “You send a message like this and expect me to delay? Archie, I demand to know what is going on.”

  Archibald concealed his disdain at the use of his childhood nickname, Archie. This was the moniker his dead mother had given him and one of the reasons he would never forgive her. When he was a youth, everyone from the knights to the servants had used it, and Archibald had always felt demeaned by its familiarity. Once he became earl, he made it law in Chadwick that anyone refe
rring to him by the name would suffer the lash. Archibald did not have the power to enforce the edict on the marquis, and he was certain Victor used it intentionally.

  “Please do try to calm down, Victor.”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down!” The marquis’s voice echoed off the stone walls. He moved closer, his face mere inches from the younger man’s, and glared into his eyes. “You wrote that my daughter Alenda’s future was at stake and spoke of evidence. Now I must know—is she, or is she not, in danger?”

  “She is most certainly,” the earl replied calmly, “but nothing imminent, to be sure. There is no kidnapping plot nor is anyone planning to murder her, if that’s what you fear.”

  “Then why send me this message? If you’ve caused me to run my carriage team to near collapse while I worried myself sick for nothing, you’ll regret—”

  Holding up his hand, Archibald cut the threat short. “I assure you, Victor, it’s not for nothing. Nevertheless, before we discuss this further, let us retire to the comfort of my study, where I can show you the evidence I mentioned.”

  Victor glowered at him but nodded in agreement.

  The two men crossed the foyer, passed through the large reception hall, and veered off through a door that led to the living quarters of the castle. As they traversed various hallways and stairways, the atmosphere of their surroundings changed dramatically. In the main entry, fine tapestries and etched stonework adorned the walls, and the floors were made of finely crafted marble. Yet beyond the entry, no displays of grandeur were found, leaving barren walls of stone the predominate feature.

  By architectural standards, or any other measures, Ballentyne Castle was unremarkable and ordinary in every respect. No great king or hero had ever called the castle home. Nor was it the site of any legend, ghost story, or battle. Instead, it was the perfect example of mediocrity and the mundane.

  After several minutes navigating the various hallways, Archibald stopped at a formidable cast-iron door. Impressive oversized bolts secured the door at its hinges, but no latch or knob was visible. Flanking either side of it stood two large well-armored guards bearing halberds. Upon Archibald’s approach, one rapped three times. A tiny viewing window opened, and a moment later, the hall echoed with the sharp sound of a bolt snapping back. As the door opened, the metal hinges screamed with a deafening noise.

  Victor’s hands moved to defend his ears. “By Mar! Have one of your servants tend to that!”

  “Never,” Archibald replied. “This is the entrance to the Gray Tower—my private study. This is my safe haven and I want to hear this door’s opening from anywhere in the castle, which I can.”

  Behind the door, Bruce greeted the pair with a deep and stately bow. Holding a lantern before him, he escorted the men up a wide spiral staircase. Halfway up the tower, Victor’s pace slowed and his breathing appeared labored.

  Archibald paused courteously. “I must apologize for the long ascent. I really don’t notice it anymore. I must have climbed these stairs a thousand times. When my father was the earl, this was the one place I could go to be alone. No one ever bothered to take the time or effort to reach the top. While it may not reach the majestic height of the Crown Tower at Ervanon, it’s the tallest tower in my castle.”

  “Don’t some people come merely to see the view?” Victor speculated.

  The earl chuckled. “You would think so, but this tower has no windows, which is what makes it the perfect location for my private study. I added the doors to protect the things dear to me.”

  Reaching the top of the stairs, they encountered another door. Archibald removed a large key from his pocket, unlocked it, and gestured for the marquis to enter. Bruce resumed his normal post outside the study and closed the door.

  The room was large and circular with an expansive ceiling. The furnishings were sparse: a large disheveled desk, two cushioned chairs near a small fireplace, and a delicate table between them. A fire burned in the hearth behind a simple brass screen, illuminating most of the study. Candles, which lined the walls, provided light to the remaining areas and filled the chamber with a pleasant, heady aroma of honey and salifan.

  Archibald smiled when he noticed Victor eyeing the cluttered desk overflowing with various scrolls and maps. “Don’t worry, sir. I hid all the truly incriminating plans for world domination prior to your visit. Please, do sit down.” Archibald indicated the pair of chairs near the hearth. “Rest yourself from your long journey while I pour us a drink.”

  The older man scowled and grumbled, “Enough of the tour and formalities. Now that we are here, let’s get on with it. Explain what this is all about.”

  Archibald ignored the marquis’s tone. He could afford to be gracious now that he was about to claim his prize. He waited while the marquis took his seat.

  “You are aware, are you not, that I have shown an interest in your daughter, Alenda?” Archibald asked, walking to the desk to pour two glasses of brandy.

  “Yes, she’s mentioned it to me.”

  “Has she mentioned why she refuses my advances?”

  “She doesn’t like you.”

  “She hardly knows me,” countered Archibald with a raised finger.

  “Archie, is this why you asked me here?”

  “Marquis, I would appreciate your addressing me by my proper name. It’s inappropriate to call me that, since my father is dead and I now hold title. In any case, your question does have a bearing on the subject. As you know, I’m the twelfth Earl of Chadwick. Granted, it’s not a huge estate, and Ballentyne isn’t the most influential of families, but I’m not without merit. I control five villages and twelve hamlets, as well as the strategic Senon Uplands. I currently command more than sixty professional men-at-arms, and twenty knights are loyal to me—including Sir Enden and Sir Breckton, perhaps the two greatest living knights. Chadwick’s wool and leather exports are the envy of all of Warric. There is even talk of the Summersrule Games being held here—on the very lawn you crossed to enter my castle.”

  “Yes, Archie—I mean, Archibald—I’m well aware of Chadwick’s status in the world. I don’t need a commerce lesson from you.”

  “Are you also aware that King Ethelred’s nephew has dined here on more than one occasion? Or that the Duke and Duchess of Rochelle have asked to dine with me at Wintertide this year?”

  “Archibald, this is quite tiresome. What exactly is your point?”

  Archibald frowned at the marquis’s lack of awe. Carrying over the glasses of brandy, he handed one to Victor and took the remaining seat. He paused a moment to sip his liquor.

  “My point is this. Given my position, my stature, and my promising future, it makes no sense for Alenda to reject me. Certainly, it’s not because of my appearance. I’m young, handsome, and wear only the finest imported fashions made from the most expensive silks to be found. The rest of her suitors are old, fat, or bald—in several cases all three.”

  “Perhaps looks and wealth are not her only concerns,” replied Victor. “Women don’t always think about politics and power. Alenda is the kind of girl who follows her heart.”

  “But she will also follow her father’s wishes. Am I correct?”

  “I don’t understand your meaning.”

  “If you told her to marry me, she would. You could order her.”

  “So, this is why you coerced me into coming here? I’m sorry, Archibald, but you have wasted your time and mine. I have no intention of forcing her to marry anyone, least of all you. She would hate me for the rest of her life. I care more about my daughter’s feelings than the political implications of her marriage. I happen to cherish Alenda. Of all my children, she is my greatest joy.”

  Archibald took another sip of brandy and considered Victor’s remarks. He decided to approach the subject from a different direction. “What if it were for her own good? To save her from what would be certain disaster.”

  “You warned me of danger to get me here. Are you finally ready to explain, or do you prefer to see if this
old man can still handle a blade?”

  Archibald disregarded what he knew was an idle threat. “When Alenda repeatedly declined my advances, I reasoned something must be amiss. There was no logic to her rebuffs. I have connections and my star is rising. Then I discovered the real reason for your daughter’s refusal—she is already involved with someone else. Alenda is having an affair, a secret affair.”

  “I find that difficult to believe,” Victor declared. “She has not mentioned anyone to me. If someone caught her eye, she would tell me.”

  “It’s little wonder she’s kept his identity from you. She’s ashamed. She knows that their relationship will bring disgrace to your family. The man she is entertaining is a mere commoner without a single drop of noble blood in his veins.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “I assure you, I’m not. The problem goes further than that, I’m afraid. His name is Degan Gaunt. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you? He’s quite famous. He’s the leader of that Nationalist movement out of Delgos. You know that down south he has stirred up all kinds of emotions with his fellow commoners. They are all intoxicated with the idea of butchering the nobility and establishing self-rule. He and your daughter have been rendezvousing at Windermere near the monastery. They meet when you are away and occupied with matters of state.”

  “That is ridiculous. My daughter would never—”

  “Don’t you have a son there?” Archibald inquired. “At the abbey, I mean. He’s a monk, isn’t he?”

  Victor nodded. “My third son, Myron.”

  “Perhaps he has been helping them. I’ve made inquiries and it seems that your son is a very intelligent fellow. Perhaps he is masterminding liaisons for his beloved sister and carrying their correspondences. This looks very bad, Victor. Here you are, the marquis of a staunchly Imperialist king, and your daughter is involved with a revolutionary and meeting him in the Royalist kingdom of Melengar while your son sets the whole thing up. Many could assume it’s a family plot. What would King Ethelred say if he knew? We both know you’re loyal, but others may have their doubts. While I realize this is nothing more than the misguided affections of an innocent girl, her escapades could ruin your family’s honor.”