by David Keck
At the far end of the high passage, a door pinched out the light. Durand charged. In a heartbeat, he was down the passage and throwing his weight against the door.
Warin spun, half-dousing his candle. Durand had seen what must be Warin's bedchamber; a cloaked shape bent in the window frame.
Huge dogs bounded for him.
"Stop!" Durand roared, but then the dogs were on him. Paws struck his chest, and muzzles fought for purchase against his jaw and shoulders. The snarls filled the castle. Boots thundered on the stairs.
BADAN, OUEN, AND half of Lamoric's men chased the stranger until the darkness and bad roads turned them back. They found no trace.
At Attorfall, they barred the doors and sat their host at his own table, his daughters wailing upstairs—over the dogs, Durand suspected. The brutes had been stubborn.
"What is this?" Warin demanded.
Coensar leaned close, while Durand stood guard. "Attorfall, I'm afraid you told a little lie when you said you hadn't seen any guests."
Warin answered in a strained whisper.
"I don't see what business that is of—"
Durand squeezed the man's shoulder. j
"Warin," prompted Coensar.
"I may've seen something. There have been men. Mostly just stopping to spend the night. Men from Beoran. Cape Erne. Heronleas. Highshields."
"And your lord?"
"I've given bloody oaths."
Durand moved Warm's arm into a painful position.
"His Grace has warned us all," said Warin, "that there may be trouble after Tern Gyre, and he's been talking about this leech of a king we're lumbered with and how there might be better men for the Hazel Throne. Is that what you're so desperate to hear?"
"Who're these better men?" demanded Coensar. "And don't think you can play clever with me now."
"I don't know. Maybe he fancies himself for the job, I don't know."
"Right," Coensar said, and Durand let the man loose.
"Get out of my house," Warin gasped.
"You've left something out, Warin. You've had a very recent houseguest."
"One of Hellebore's men. A messenger only. He's the one told me there might be trouble after Tem Gyre. To be ready if there's a call."
"Now he's seen us here, what does he intend to do?" prompted Coensar.
"I don't know. He may plan to catch the duke up in Tern Gyre. Or warn his people there are men from Gireth on the move in his lands. Maybe they won't take it so kindly."
THEY SET OUT in the dark, taking whatever shepherd's tracks Heremund could scare up for them. When light returned, they passed scowling swineherds and poachers on forest tracks.
Knights and shield-bearers all kept their swords handy. Coensar made certain that outriders patrolled in strength and kept a rearguard trailing them in case of ambush.
Finally, they crossed Hellebore and Saerdana to reach the chalk cliffs above the Broken Crown and the harbor city of Port Stairs.
"DURAND, WE MUST speak," Deorwen said.
For a moment, the party jostling around them was out of earshot At every turn for the last fifty leagues, she had been trying to corner him. Now, as the party packed the switch-backing streets of Port Stairs, Deorwen slipped in alongside.
"You've avoided me long enough," she said.
Durand kept his silence.
The town tumbled down a chalk cliff, heaped on the terraces that had given Port Stairs its name. The street to the quayside zigzagged like a weaver's shuttle, and, at each bend, the Port Stair burghers had thrown up a sanctuary idol: the Warders, the Champion, the Maid, the Queen.
She caught him under the twin Warders with their shields and their coats of nails as the street reversed itself for the next "stair."
"You must give me a chance to explain."
'There's no need," Durand said. He spurred his gelding into the next street, and into the crowd again. "Damn you," she hissed, but the old rule bound her: Secrets could not stand the Eye of Heaven. For Durand, the press of the crowd meant safety though he could feel her eyes on his back as riders moved between them.
He drew a deep breath of sea air. Port Stairs was a strange place. Shops and houses crowded so close on every side that, even though the town was one street deep, a man could only catch the glint of the waves in quick alley glimpses.
Another sanctuary idol hove near: the Maid, free and tall, almost as though she could see the waves. The baggage train balled up around her skirts.
"Durand, we have to speak. It does us no good to pretend," Deorwen said. But this was not the time, and a time would never come. He must be like the tooth-puller and snatch the rotten thing out with one twist. It would be a mercy to them both.
"For God's sake," she said, but Durand spurred his horse into the next street once again. This time he wound up knee to knee with Lamoric at the head of their crowd.
Just then, Berchard rode up from the quay to the head of their column.
"Lordship," he said, drawing in beside Lamoric. "There are some few deepwater freighters stuck up here until the storm season's past. There's a cog name of Solan. I spoke with her master. She's got a deck that should hold horses, and they're set to cast off."
Lamoric flashed a wide grin. "He'll ferry us?"
"He's ferrying breeding stock to Biding," Berchard said. "Says he'll press on to Tern Gyre if we pay him."
Lamoric nodded as they rode into the press at the next bend. Here, a tall figure in pale limestone and a traveler's hood clutched its tall staff in bony hands. Someone had jammed real pennies in its eyes.
"I told you," said Lamoric, "we are fated to reach Tern Gyre. The Powers have swept all obstacles from our path."
Berchard winced at this, risking a quick glance at the idol. "Perhaps, Lordship, if Heaven wills."
"In any case, it sounds as though we had better hurry," said Lamoric.
Their train clattered onto the quayside.
Sailors and longshoremen swarmed over a broad-beamed ship. Half the deck was already full of horses, and there were men already on the mooring lines.
Berchard pointed.
'That's her. That's the Solan."
Durand led his mount straight onto the deck, hurrying with all the others to get their gear aboard before the Solan's master cast her off. Deorwen could not get near. Guthred tramped back and forth, hissing orders and getting the skittish animals blindfolded and across the gangplanks. In the end, every horse would need a man standing by.
"How much?" Berchard shouted.
Durand spun to see men like Coensar and Agryn standing with Lamoric as the young lord spoke with the ship's master. A round, bowlegged man, the ship's master stood firm.
"It's a fair price for short notice and an empty return," he said.
Berchard looked ready to take them off the ship, when Lamoric drew a purse from his saddle.
"Here," he said, grinning. "I've paid the men, we're on our way to Tern Gyre, and this is the last of it." Right before the master's nose, he shook the bag of pennies for weight. "You want one pound of silver, and you shall have it."
Dubiously, the master took the bag.
Lamoric smiled, slapping the dust from his hands.
"I'm imagining you'll have a few pennies more than I owe, but I'll not worry," he said, grinning to his friends. "I've wagered my whole fortune on this venture."
Not a few men blinked at this. Old campaigners caught at their hats and cloaks. They were still a long way from anything like victory. Now, they knew there was no going back, at least not for the young man who led them.
"Right, then. Cast off!" shouted the ship's master, shaking the sack of pennies by way of punctuation. "Signal the pilot." Sailors scurried over the deck.
"Let's get where we can see where we're going," Lamoric said, and his companions followed him up to the forecastle. The harbor boatmen were tying on, ready to row the big ship out into the bay.
Durand intended to stay aft with his horses, his fingers curled in the gray's bridle, bu
t then he saw her. Deorwen made her way between the animals. Durand nodded to one of Guthred's boys, take him, and climbed the steps into the ship's open forecastle.
He didn't look to see her scowl. He could feel it.
From the crowd at the forecastle, Durand looked back toward towering Port Stairs and the shining cliffs of Saerdana looming twenty fathoms above their masthead. He wondered, even seeing it bright and clean as new silver, whether its lady stood with the king or against him. She held two duchies on her own. If she had been swayed, then the vote could go badly. Durand knew nothing about her, except she had managed to hold two duchies.
Above the deck, sailors freed the long yard and prepared to hoist the sail, while oarsmen under the bow hauled away, dragging the Solan into open water.
Two duchies—or was it three?—looked out over the Broken Crown. He couldn't remember. No wonder there were so many messengers riding the roads. With fourteen duchies represented at the council, each duke must be testing the others, sniffing the breezes and taking care not to land on the wrong side. Any king would kill the men who voted against him.
Deorwen stared up from the deck, dark eyes accusing, though Durand was safely surrounded and in plain sight. At her side, Lady Bertana practically writhed with disapproval, twisting toward the sea and back, but Deorwen kept her eyes on Durand. Sailors walked between them. Grooms and shield-bearers scratched their necks and looked around, bored and stuck holding bridles. Someone would notice.
Durand turned away.
"Well," Berchard was saying. "/ had land once. The priests assessed it at nearly two thousand acres." Ouen, beside him, raised his blond eyebrows. 'That would do me."
"But I couldn't hold it. There were debts and debts, with one thing and another, and sickness among the peasants, and blights, and there was no hanging on." There were sheepish looks around Lamoric's circle. "It's a long time ago now," he said, then caught a breath.
"So ... I've been a hired soldier most of these past twenty years, guarding this and that. Fighting. From here down to Mankyria without ever getting enough coin together in one place to buy back half what I lost as a young man, but that's the way of things. You'll meet one or two who've done well but not many. And now I'm starting to creak a little. It takes longer to get out of bed, and I don't like sleeping on the ground.
"Feather beds," said Ouen, nodding. The gold teeth glinted.
"Hot food," said Berchard.
Badan sneered at the pair of them.
"It's all right when you're young," said Berchard, "but I've put these bones through about as much as they'll stand. It's one reason I've come back north after so long away."
"And yourself, Agryn?" Berchard asked. "What do you plan to do when we're great men and famous?"
"I will rest," he said. "If the King of Heaven grants me leave."
"Aye," said Berchard. "That's it, isn't it? When a man's on the road he's always moving. There's no sitting down when he don't know where his next penny's coming from. He's always on the scrounge, thinking: What if I catch one this time? Where will I be this winter? He can't ever really rest."
"It has been a long time," said Agryn.
The ship's master bandied across the forecastle, and bent to look down over the bows.
"All right, you lot. That's enough. Cast off the towlines! We've sea room enough to set sail."
As the crew hauled away, Durand got a last glimpse of the terraces and gleaming cliffs before the crew raised the broad rectangle of Solan's sail and blocked it all.
Deorwen stepped forward, making sure she caught his eye.
THEIR WHOLE SHORT voyage passed that way, though the chatting did not last. Lamoric's men paced the forecastle, peering northward or heading down to the deck where they could examine their animals or riffle through their gear. If they had not been wrapped in their own cares, not one could have missed Deorwen's stare. As it was, knights of a hundred battles sat on the deck, worrying at their swords with whetstones. Eventually, out of sheer frustration, Guthred dug out his grinding wheel and did every man's blade properly.
Durand felt the pressure of seasickness in his skull— seasickness wrapped in the tight bands of Deorwen's starel What was he meant to do? He did not want silence. He wanted to stand close, breathing in snatches, mouth to mouth. He haunted the bow, as far forward as he could manage. They said it helped the seasickness to look forward.
A few hours after Agryn prayed Noontide Lauds, Durand spotted a break in the even white cliffs, far off to the southeast. With a needle of shock, he realized that he was looking on the Gates of Eldinor, the strait that led to the Gulf of El-dinor. Squinting, he could make out white towers bristling like needles above the waves. This was the capital of Errest the Old—once capital of all the Atthias—standing in splendor, a round isle moated in leagues of seawater, clad in white stone. As he watched, he realized that some of the towers moved—the masts and sails of many ships. Somewhere among it all would be the Mount of Eagles and its Hazel Throne, carried from the Shattered Isle and fashioned from the chest in which Queen Aellaryth set her Young Princes upon the waves. Somewhere was the high sanctuary where kings spent their three nights in the crypt of their fathers and awoke hearing the whispers of the kingdom.
Once, the whole of Creation had turned around that spot, and, even now, Errest the Old looked to Eldinor. Kings beyond counting. Heroes beyond number. Powers of Heaven walking Creation. Durand marveled that it could all come to rest on bad debts.
He glanced back and found Deorwen's dark eyes.
24. The Wreck of Dreams
God," said Lamoric. 'There it is." The knights stared out. The cliffs of Tem Gyre glowed above them, red as a towering wall of embers. Men punched each other in the arms, acting like boys.
'We have come to Tern Gyre," Agryn said, with curious solemnity, and a few of the others took a moment to make the Eye of Heaven.
The Solan had dropped half her load at Biding, and swung northwest, tacking into a stubborn wind. Now, with her bow pointed straight into the open sea beyond Tern Gyre's head, the fortress crept into sight.
But Durand had a glimpse of the brute cunning behind its design. The whole castle stood at one end of a chalk arch, some forty fathoms above the breakers. All the miners and engineers in the world could not reach it. He imagined an enemy trying to get at the place. The arch was narrow and open. A whole war would have to be fought two men at a time, and, if Durand knew the builders, there would be a fearsome gate at the castle end.
Now, though, it was packed with all the barons of the realm.
"I never thought we'd see it," Lamoric said. "You've all done better than I could ever have hoped."
As the Solan struggled her way toward the headland, Durand made out another feature of the castle's defenses: a landing and a stair on the sea. It was the cunning finish to a shrewd design. Even if an enemy squatted at the bridgehead for a thousand years, that enemy must watch as supply ships docked out of reach, passing the garrison food and freshwater every day.
The deck shifted as the bow swung about.
Lamoric said, "What's that fool doing?"
They were near the Barbican Strait, where the Crown broke and the Westering Sea stretched out of the world. With the wind and waves and twilight, Durand hadn't noticed the sailors scrambling. Now, though, his ears picked out a desperate edge to the voice of Solan's master. The little man stood in the aftercastle, alternately shouting to a bull-necked sailor on the steering oar or to the crew handling the broad sail's sheets and braces. Between roars, he muttered a charm against drowning.
A look into the rollers told Durand why: A great current bulled through the strait, driving them toward the cliffs. This was where the tide filled the Broken Crown. Durand peered about, suddenly uneasy. He knew a little about boats from his years by Silvermere. The wind followed the tide through the Barbican. Solan had to tack wildly across it just to keep from falling into the cliffs. The sailors called it clawing off a lee shore, and, with tide compounding wind
, it was likely to be a grim business.
They sheered north across the face of the wind, cutting sharply toward rocks that boomed and thundered nearer in the surf. Even men like Badan opened their eyes. Agryn abandoned his prayers of thanksgiving, setting one hand down for balance. Any moment, the master would swing the Solan round and dart back to steal sea room from the wind.
Just as the ship's master opened his mouth, Durand saw a vast shape flicker in the blazing light: A black swell had shouldered its way into the strait.
Sailors on the sheets looked up. The master shouted his order. The wave hit
The forecastle flipped like a catapult. Men sprawled. Durand slid—even having seen it coming—tumbling across the deck until he fetched up hard against a bulwark. There were screams from the deck. In an instant, Durand was on his hands and knees. He saw a kicking mass of men and horses, black and red under a full sail.
The master roared from the aftercastle. "Come about! Bring her about! Get the sheet! I need a man on that damned brace!"
In an instant, Durand understood. Solan was still driving toward the breakers, and the toppled crowd in the ship's waist must have crushed anyone working by the rail. As long as the sail was taut and full, they could never make the tack. Someone had to free the sail. With the deck a shambles, there was no one.
The deck pitched.
Durand leapt down into the waist and bounded over men and beasts with his eyes on the line that held the sail. If he could free it, they stood a chance. A screaming tangle of thrashing limbs blocked his way.
The starboard rail sketched a dark trace toward the line, and he jumped. His soles slid, but he threw himself forward, catching at shrouds and stiff canvas to keep his balance over the waves.
Solan ran another fifty yards. There was no time.
Durand pitched from the rail, leaping bodily into the sail and its straining sheet line. In a moment of cracked knees and bruises, he got his hands on the knot and fumbled the whole thing free.