by Cheryl Dyson
******
Verana crossed the courtyard with her dark cloak pulled close about her. Ebons were not plentiful even in the south. She approached the postern gate where a pompous-looking black-clad guard halted her. He blocked her way with an elaborately carved staff.
"Where go ye and why?"
She looked at him fully and he gasped before snapping to attention.
"I am Verana, tutor and maid to Lady Chalmyn of Kaaza. I am going to the village for her to see what books I might find for sale."
The man cleared his throat. "’Twould be a better selection in the king’s library."
"Milady prefers to purchase rather than borrow. Besides, it is chaotic in there." She gestured at the castle. "I welcome the chance to escape, if only for a short while."
"Very well," he said. "I'll inform me relief to allow ye back inside if ye don’t return by the end of me shift."
Verana beamed at him, fully aware of the power of her white smile. "Thank you, kind sir. May your watch be short and uneventful."
She entered the long corridor that was a small passageway between the great walls and exited in the outer bailey.
The outer ward bustled with activity. News of the wedding had traveled far, even in so short a time, and peddlers of every type had dragged their goods to Ven-Kerrick to take advantage of the crowds. Brightly colored tents had been amassed haphazardly and the sounds of music and laughter grew louder as Verana approached. The crowd consisted mostly of peasants—the nobility had likely entered the castle as the time of the ceremony drew near.
The peasant folk were having a riotous time—eating, drinking, watching jugglers, acrobats, and dancers while peddlers tried to entice them into parting with their precious coppers. Verana ignored their blandishments as she made her way through the throng, at last discovering a mass of grey tents erected in orderly fashion near one of the walls. Milling about the tents were soldiers doing what encamped soldiers did—they napped, sharpened weapons, chatted, or paced.
Verana’s steady approach drew the attention of one of the pacers—a young, dark-haired man with hawklike features. He strode out to meet her, brows lifting slightly in surprise when she came into full view.
"Milady," he greeted her with a curt nod.
"Are you in command, here?" she asked, evidently not the sort of question he expected.
"Yes. I am Knight-Commander Montyr."
"Knight-Commander?" she asked dubiously. "Where is your Marshall, or Seneschal?"
Montyr’s face twisted. "Our Seneschal was killed in Bodor and our Marshall barely escaped with his life." He jerked his head in the direction of one of the larger tents. "He is in there, sorely wounded."
"Has he been tended?"
Montyr’s manner softened somewhat at her worried tone. "Our field surgeon has seen to him."
"May I take a look?" she inquired and shifted her dark cloak enough to reveal the rose insignia on her inner robes. Montyr’s eyes fell to it immediately and he nodded, seeming relieved. He turned and led the way to the tent. Inside, a grey-haired man lay upon a cot. His skin was pale and he breathed shallowly. He muttered unintelligibly and thrashed, knocking one of his blankets partially off. Another man, apparently the field surgeon, tugged the cloth back up. He was short and balding. What little remained of his hair was grey as steel. He turned sharply as Montyr and Verana entered.
"How is he, Jak?" Montyr asked.
"Unchanged," the surgeon replied. "Still delirious."
Verana hurried forward and examined the wounded Marshall. The field surgeon bristled instantly.
"Madam!" he snapped, "I will thank you to keep your hands off my patient. Montyr—"
Verana ignored his tirade and asked a question. "Was there kidney damage?" She scrutinized the ragged looking gash in the man’s side, seemingly caused by a sword-blow.
The surgeon’s grey eyebrows waggled in surprise. "Nay. The wound was deep, but not irreparable. The worst was the blow to his head."
Verana touched the neat stitches that had closed the side injury. "A fine job of stitchery," she commented with a brief smile. "I will leave you medicines for a poultice which will draw out any poison and help him to heal. May I examine his head wound?" When the field surgeon merely gaped at her, she added, "My name is Verana. Order of the Rose."
The man’s jaw snapped shut and he sighed—whether in relief or annoyance, Verana could not tell—and nodded. He rolled the Marshall over gently until the base of his bandaged skull was visible. Blood stained the bandage darkly and Verana peeled the cloth away. She cleaned away the clotted blood with a nearby basin of water and inspected the injury. Her hands were soon red with blood.
"There are chips of bone which need to be removed—I think one of them is pressing into his brain. Fetch me operating tools immediately," she said. The field surgeon hurried away without comment. Verana heated more water in the nearby brazier. Montyr, face pale, began to edge his way from the tent. Verana halted him.
"Knight-Commander, Queen Shevyn has been taken captive and is being forced to marry Reed, the man who murdered her family and took control of Ven-Kerrick. Jace the Wanderer, Knight-priest of the Shield, and a Falaran named Brydon Redwing are inside the castle at this moment, seeking to halt this wicked farce. Another man, Redolian, aids them, but the three of them cannot hope to stand against Reed’s forces, even should they manage to locate Prince Kerryn with whatever allies he has mustered."
Montyr’s jaw worked wordlessly as Verana’s words penetrated. "The queen—against her will?" he finally choked out. "But Reed is Regent. We all saw the document—it was the king’s will."
Verana knelt beside the unconscious Marshall. She curbed her impatience and continued, "Reed is in league with Shaitan. He has strange and mysterious powers. In the end, none of the royal family could stand against him. I am sure King Koryn wrote the document, but he was not likely to have been in his right mind. When her family was murdered, Shevyn fled Ven-Kerrick alone. She was found in Penkangum by Brydon."
The words were coming too fast for Montyr. "She fled? But we were told she had gone to Bodor to visit Queen Ierona. To seek comfort."
"Who told you that?" Verana demanded and he blanched.
"Reed," he replied hoarsely.
Verana nodded. "She escaped him twice, but now he has her. You can well wager that he will kill her when he has no more need of her, and that will be the end of the Kerrick line, the end of the Concurrence, and more. How long do you suppose it will take the Parmittans to learn of the Kerricks’ fate? Who would wield the gauntlet against them?"
"He sent us away," Montyr said in dawning understanding. "He sent every knight-priest in Ven-Kerrick on a fool’s mission to Bodor. He said his own guard could easily protect the castle in our absence." Montyr smacked a fist into his palm. "There was no threat in Bodor—Queen Ierona laughed in our faces. We were ambushed on the return—bandits, it seemed." He looked at Verana. "Reed sent them?" Verana nodded, having little doubt of it.
"When we finally returned to Ven-Kerrick, we were told not to enter the castle. Reed has given us one lame excuse after another for weeks. I was suspicious, but saw no reason to doubt his word." His face paled once more. "When we left for Bodor, the Chancellor remained behind. When we returned, he was dead. An accident."
"No accident," Verana responded and tucked bunches of dried moss around the patient’s skull wound to stop the copious bleeding. "Reed will allow no knight-priests near him for long. If he succeeds in his plan, he will disband the Gauntlet Knights, you can bet on that."
"Not while I live," Montyr vowed. He looked at the prone Marshall for a moment in indecision. "Have you any proof of this matter?" he asked Verana. She sighed and tucked a stray lock of hair away from her face and felt a bloody streak mar her forehead.
"No, Knight Commander," she said softly before her eyes bored into his, "but I do not lie."
He stared at her for a moment and then nodded. "I fear we will have to storm the gates. There could be
a bloody battle."
So predicting, he went out, calling loudly for his lesser officers and aides, and passed the incoming field surgeon. Verana turned to her patient, knowing there was no more she could do for Jace and the others. She sent a brief prayer to Adona for the safety of her friends and then turned to her work.