“Yes,” said Cariad. He glanced at Juilene, as if warning her to say nothing. “Magic I believe which will enable me to defeat Lindos—if I can get close enough.”
Deatrice raised her brow, and the King leaned forward. A few of the men gathered around him guffawed softly and he quelled them with a glance. “And why do you think that, my young knight?”
Cariad squared his shoulders and drew himself up. “Because I am the non-born knight.”
There were more mutters of derision from the men, but the King only stared and Deatrice sucked her breath in hard. Finally Jarron spoke. “I think it would be better if we continued the rest of this conversation in private.” He glanced impatiently at the men who clustered close about his chair. “Away with you, all of you,” he said.
The men drew back with guarded expressions. Skar bowed and touched Cariad’s arm gently. “I go, too, lord.” It was the first time Skar had ever addressed Cariad as anything more than an equal and Juilene was surprised.
Deatrice beckoned. “Come with me.” She led the three of them, Cariad and Juilene and the King, down a short corridor and into a small room, which Juilene recognized with immediate distaste. Although a fire leaped in the polished grate, it was only marginally warmer than in the hall. Juilene pushed the unpleasant memories aside. What did any of that matter now? Eral was dead, and here she was, in the company of the King of Sylyria. Who could have foreseen the twists her fate had taken, or the role the goddess had in store for her to play?
She sank to the soft rug beside the hearth as the King and Deatrice and Cariad took chairs.
“I’m warmer here,” she said when Cariad offered her a seat.
“So you think you are Lindos’s doom?” Jarron demanded without ceremony.
“No, Your Highness,” said Cariad. “I know I am.”
“How do you know this?” Jarron pressed.
“Because,” Cariad spoke slowly, as if measuring every word, “I am not from this time. I come from what will be the future of this present.”
Deatrice gasped, and the King glanced at her. “What do you know of this,” he asked.
She shook her head. “No-nothing. Such a thing as breaching time would require knowledge which I don’t have—which no one has, I thought.”
Cariad nodded. “No one does, lady, not yet. But in the future—”
“Can you prove that?” Jarron asked. “Can you tell me something which has not yet come to pass?”
Cariad wet his lips. “I can tell you that right now you are planning for an assault upon Lindos.”
The King blanched. “Yes?”
“Your efforts are doomed to failure, Highness. It will go down in history as the Rout of Arvon. You and all your supporters will be killed. And Lindos will make himself High Thurge of the Conclave.”
Jarron breathed a long sigh, his eyes narrowed, his mouth grim. “Killed,” he mused. He ran his eyes over Cariad, measuring and assessing. “So if I believe that you are the non-born knight, how can we turn this to our advantage?”
“I am impervious to magic in this time,” he said. “I am not sure if that isn’t part of it, or not.”
“Impervious,” asked Deatrice. “What do you mean?”
“I mean magic has no effect upon me, lady. Would you care to try it?”
She narrowed her eyes and glanced around the room, and Juilene knew that Deatrice would like to try it, itched to try it, and dared not. “The confines of this room are too close, my knight,” she said, her voice nearly a purr. “There would be danger to the King and to your lady. But,” she went on, addressing the King, “when I tried to—to assess the sort of spell he carries—it was almost as if he weren’t there, in some way. I can understand how that would affect the magic’s effect upon him.”
The King drummed his fingers on the arms of the chair, thinking. Finally he said, “What thurge laid this spell upon you?”
“Her name is Rihana. And in my time, she is the Over-Thurge of Khardroon.”
Deatrice wrinkled her brow. “Rihana? I never heard of her.”
“You would not have, my lady,” Cariad said, with that same gentleness Juilene loved. “She is yet not much more than a child. But she is the sister of Thane Diago, who is also a thurge.”
Deatrice raised her brows. “Diago! I’ve heard of him!”
Jarron nodded and stroked his beard. “Indeed. And if his sister is anything like him—”
She’s worse, Juilene wanted to say. But she kept silent, watching the three.
“Well,” said Jarron, “let us not worry about a thurge who’s yet a child. We have enough to deal with now. The situation here is—” He broke off and stared unseeing into the flames.
“If you are impervious to magic,” said Deatrice, “Lindos is helpless against you. It would be an easy enough thing for you to kill him.”
A chill went down Juilene’s back that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. Easy enough, Deatrice said. The words echoed in her mind, in Arimond’s voice. Easy enough to kill him, Arimond had said. Easy. And now Arimond was dead. She raised her head. “We must not underestimate Lindos.”
For the first time, the King looked at her and there was kindness and pity in his eyes. “No, Lady Juilene, we will not make that mistake. But we do have one advantage, I think, especially with your presence here.”
“And what’s that, Your Highness?” asked Cariad. “The layout of Lindos’s keep?”
Jarron exchanged glances with Deatrice. “He’s not at his keep,” Deatrice said softly. She glanced at Juilene.
“No?” asked Cariad. “Where is he then? At the Over-Thurge’s palace in the city?”
“No,” answered Jarron, his voice equally gentle. He looked at Juilene and his eyes were kind. “He’s taken up residence at Castle Sarrasin.”
Juilene felt the words like a blow. The thought that the monster could have taken up residence in her father’s own house—walked the halls her family had walked, sat and ate and slept within the very chambers she had known and cherished in her memory all these terrible months—twisted in her belly. Nausea washed over her like a wave, and Cariad was half out of his chair before she looked up once more. “I’m all right,” she managed weakly.
There was a knock at the door, and the King called, “Enter!” his eyes still on Juilene’s face.
A servant stood shivering in the doorway. “Your pardon, My Transcendence, Your Highness, but the young thurge from Gravenhage has awakened at last, and begs leave to join your company. And, Highness, one of your scouts has returned from the western districts.”
Jarron got to his feet. “Then I will go and talk to him immediately. There may be something he can tell us that will aid in our discussions.” He bowed to Deatrice and Juilene. “Transcendence, Lady Juilene. Will you excuse me?”
“Of course,” Deatrice said, “though I must go as well and speak to my demi-thurges who guard the borders. Bring this lady and her knight hot wine and some seedcakes, if there are any, and I will return directly.”
The servant bowed and turned away, and with a rustle of robes, both Deatrice and the King were gone.
Cariad moved to the hearth. “So,” he began.
A slight man, younger than Cariad, only a few years older than Juilene, peered into the room. There was something familiar about his face, some set of his chin, some lift of his eyes, and Juilene realized with a start that he had the same dark curling hair as Cariad. But he wore the robes of a thurge, and the thin border around the hem told her he was only a demi-thurge. “I beg your pardon, good sir, my lady, but I was told I would find the lady of the keep here? And the King?”
“So they were, sir, and will return shortly. Will you wait with us?”
The thurge stepped into the room his thick robes swirling around his ankles, and Juilene glanced at Cariad. He gripped the edge of the hearth with a white-knuckled hand and his face had drained of all color. Juilene started to get up, but Cariad motioned to her to stay where she was. She lo
oked at him, a question in her eyes.
“My name is Galanthir of Gravenhage,” said the newcomer, extending one hand courteously to Cariad. With a start Juilene recognized the name from Cariad’s story.
“I am—” The words seemed to stick in his throat. “I am also of Gravenhage,” managed Cariad. “My name is Cariad.”
“Of Gravenhage?” repeated Galanthir. His voice was higher than most men’s, but he gave the syllables the same lilting lift as Cariad did. “I am very pleased and most surprised to meet you here, my friend.” He paused, cocked his head, and regarded Cariad. “Have we ever met before? I—I must confess, I don’t recall your name—but your face—”
“My name is Lady Juilene of Sarrasin,” said Juilene quickly.
Galanthir raised one coal dark brow. “Lady Juilene. Now I know your name if not your face. The lost lady—the songsayers have made you a legend in Gravenhage already, lady. Though I am very glad to see you’ve been found.” A smile curved the serious mouth, and Juilene, gazing into the pale eyes, saw gentleness and humor, and something that reminded her of Cariad, and she glanced at her lover once more.
The two were turned in profile to each other, and with a start, Juilene saw exactly what it was. The two of them resembled each other, not so much that they looked like brothers, but the family resemblance was strong. No wonder Galanthir looked so puzzled.
“Thank you, sir,” she said. She nodded and smiled and thanked Neri for all the hours of etiquette lessons that not even months of deprivation could erase.
“Will you sit, sir?” asked Cariad.
Galanthir nodded, and took the chair Deatrice had just vacated. “What brings you to this part of Sylyria, my friend?”
“I—I was in the serve of a thane of Khardroon,” answered Cariad.
Galanthir cocked his head at Cariad. “Forgive me—I do not mean to stare at you, but surely, we have met—”
“Yes,” said Cariad. He faced Galanthir. “We have.” The eyes of the two men met but Galanthir said nothing, only waited. “Though strictly speaking, we have not met yet—but we will.”
Galanthir raised one eyebrow. “Tell me who you are.”
“My name is Cariad. I am the son of Queen Mirta and General Keriaan.”
“Keriaan is only a captain,” Galanthir said softly.
“He will be promoted very shortly, partly in reward for his part in the coming battle.”
Galanthir stared at Cariad, then glanced at Juilene. Finally his eyes settled on Cariad, scanning his face over and over, as if searching. “Are you implying you’ve been sent here from the future?” Galanthir asked.
Cariad nodded and Juilene shifted her weight. There was something different about this young man. He spoke as calmly as if meeting someone who claimed to be from the future were an everyday occurrence. His next question surprised her even more.
“Did I send you?”
“No. You helped. I am, after all, your nephew.”
The same wry smile flitted across the features of both men. Juilene slowly let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“Lindos’s doom is the non-born knight,” said Cariad.
Galanthir nodded. “And so here you are.” He rose and paced before the fire, his robes swirling. “But—” His whole frame quivered with suppressed energy, and Juilene realized that despite his demeanor, Galanthir was anything but calm. “There’re so many questions I have for you—” He stopped and turned and glanced from Cariad to Juilene. “But you—you are of this time, no?”
She nodded.
He ran a hand over his forehead and down his cheek. “So many questions—this raises so many possibilities—” He stepped in one direction, seemed to think better of it, and resumed his pacing in the opposite direction. Finally he threw himself into a chair. “Keriaan and the Queen—hmm—then—” He shook his head. “Ah, never mind that now. The fact is that you are here—no matter the circumstances of your birth. But let me ask you this, for I must know, in your time—where you come from—Lindos is alive?”
Cariad nodded. “Yes. Very much so.”
“So by sending you back in time—to be the non-born knight—to bring about his doom—the future—your present—will change.” Galanthir looked from one to the other.
Cariad nodded again. “Yes. I suppose you are right.”
Galanthir frowned. “And whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing—” He broke off. “I’m not sure there’s time to consider all the implications.” He sighed.
“No,” said Cariad, “nor are we.”
“What will happen here—according to the history that you know?”
“The forces of the King will be defeated. There will be a plan to force Lindos out of Sarrasin. But it will fail, and the King’s army will be routed on the banks of the River Arvon.”
Galanthir listened. “Jarron hopes that Gravenhage will come to his aid. But in truth—although Keriaan, Captain Keriaan, is poised upon the border, there will be no aid from Gravenhage. That is why I have come, by routes as dark and circuitous as any you have walked, my lady. Lindos has Keriaan’s wife, Amanda, as hostage, and there are rumors that she is with child.”
“The rumors are true,” said Cariad softly.
Galanthir started. “How can you be—” He broke off, and his expression was grim. “Keriaan and Amanda have waited a long time for this child.” Cariad said nothing, and Galanthir regarded him closely. “What else can you tell me?”
Cariad spread his hands. “Perhaps you would rather not know.”
Galanthir laughed, briefly, without humor. “Surely you know nephew”—he spoke the word with bitter irony—“that what we would rather not has nothing to do with our present situation.”
Cariad drew a deep breath. “You’re right. Of course. Keriaan’s wife, the lady Amanda, is indeed pregnant. She dies in childbirth, although her daughter is spared. Keriaan, when he hears of this, is so angered and distraught that against every order he rides over the border of Sylyria and rescues the infant, returning with her to Gravenhage. In the process, he manages to inflict a fair amount of damage to Lindos’s reserves. His heroism is”—Cariad seemed to search for the proper word—“rewarded.”
“By the attentions of the Queen?”
Cariad nodded briefly.
“And what of the Sylyrian King? What of Lindos?”
“Jarron is defeated.” Cariad looked Galanthir squarely in the eyes. “A truce is reached—but the battle they are planning is remembered as the Rout of Arvon.”
“I see.” Galanthir turned away. “And why did the assault at Arvon fail?”
Cariad shook his head. “From everything I have understood, the mistake was to try and force Lindos out of his castle.”
“It’s not his castle,” Juilene interrupted.
“Forgive me,” Cariad said. “I should know better. But it seems to me that goading Lindos into moving was not the answer. Lindos must be taken by surprise—before he has time to work his magic—before he has an opportunity to strategize with his own thurges.”
Galanthir nodded. “Yes. Now, if we can only think of a distraction—something to bring us in close enough—”
“I can think of something,” Juilene said.
The two men looked at her. “And what’s that,” asked Galanthir kindly. He looked at her with the same expression one gave to an adorable child, and Juilene gritted her teeth.
“You heard what the demi-thurge said, who raised the border for us.” Juilene looked at Cariad. “He said Lindos was looking for me. What if I go to Sarrasin, and pretend that—that I am coming back to him?”
Cariad frowned. “I don’t like the idea of you as bait, Juilene. I don’t like that at all.”
“But what if we go with her?” asked Galanthir, who was looking at Juilene with new respect. “As emissaries from the King of Gravenhage?”
Cariad exchanged glances with Juilene. “I’m not sure I like that. It smacks of what you tried once, lady, and failed. Surely y
ou know that I would never—”
“Is my name mentioned in the history books?” asked Juilene. “Is my father’s name, or any of my family?”’
“No.” He shook his head slowly.
“Then maybe this is the way it should have been all along, Cariad. Maybe Arimond wasn’t totally wrong in what he tried to do—only it was the wrong time and the wrong place and the wrong—”
“Knight?” supplied Galanthir.
She stopped in midspeech. “Yes. He wasn’t the non-born knight, but you are. And we know Lindos wants me. He’ll let me in. And how can he not let you in? Would he dare to defy the King of another city in the League?”
“In my time, he would,” said Cariad.
“But he’s not that strong yet, is he? And you know we can stop him. Between the two of us—the three of us—” she paused to include Galanthir—“between us we can distract him so that he won’t have time to make plans, and the Rout of Arvon will go down as the Siege of Sarrasin. And if Lindos can be stopped, then Sarrasin need not be destroyed.”
Galanthir and Cariad exchanged a long look. Finally Cariad nodded. “We can discuss it with the King, lady. Though to bait a trap with you is not to my liking.”
The bedroom they were given to share was cold. Juilene huddled beneath the covers, wishing Cariad would hurry. But he had still been hunkered down before the fire, discussing strategy and tactics with Galanthir and the King’s advisers, and Juilene had felt useless and out of place. All evening he had said little to her, ever since that afternoon when she had suggested that she go back to Lindos. She knew he was upset with her, but surely even he could see that there were no guarantees of safety to anyone?
Deatrice and Jarron were nowhere to be found, and Juilene suspected that the thurge had chosen to entertain her highest-ranking guest in private. Well, why not, she thought. The thurges answered to no laws but their own—she knew that now—and who was to say that a woman who was a thurge should willingly bind herself to any rules of propriety.
She turned on her side, curling her feet up and under herself. The linen sheets were crisp and white and very clean, and the blankets were thick and smelled of summer herbs. But the cold pervaded every corner of the room, and the fire burning brightly in the grate did little to warm the air. The candles flickered as the door opened and closed. “Blessed goddess,” Cariad muttered as he stepped into the room, shivering. “I’ve never felt such cold.” She watched him strip and dive under the covers. Immediately he reached for her warmth. “There,” he said, between teeth clenched to keep from chattering. “That’s better.”
The Knight, the Harp, and the Maiden Page 28