“And since when has this door had a lock?” Renda looked around her in growing irritation.
“You remember aright, my lady.” Nara frowned, backing away from the door. “The children’s door was never fitted with a lock.”
Renda pounded at the door with her sword in frustration. “Come, Spirit,” she called, “if you would have words with me, open this door.”
Abruptly, the chanting stopped. Renda reached out to take the handle of the door, unsure how she might react if the door stood unlocked now. She steeled her nerves, blotting out the fearful imaginings of her mind, and touched the cold metal.
Under her hand, the door flew open. Her heart thundered in her chest, but she took a careful step forward, moving her sword through the shadows before her. In the darkness, she saw the bed, neatly covered with a white dropcloth, the chest of drawers, the armoire, the shelves.
Otherwise, she saw only darkness. Silence and darkness, as still as the clearing where she had found Pegrine’s body. Yet she felt nothing. No chill breeze, none of the strange sense of disorder that had marked the glade. The chamber was simply empty. She moved to enter, but Nara stopped her.
“Let me cast my light about the chamber before you enter, Lady,” she said, “lest some evil lurk in the shadows,” and the old woman stepped into Pegrine’s chamber. At once, the room filled with light, and Renda lowered her sword. The spirit was gone.
Eight
Rock. Around him, above and below, on every side. No air, no sky. Chul stared up at the great crushing expanse of stone above the bed, too terrified to blink. They had buried him alive, buried him with his father! He tried to lift his arm, but a soft weight of cloth held it down. Nekraba had bound him already, and now the giant Mohoro would come for him. His breath came in quick gasps, and his eyes darted back and forth from one wall to another, listening against the darkness. It was a mistake. He had to get out.
The silky bedclothes slipped aside without much fight. He scrambled out of the bed, triumphant in his escape, and stood naked in the middle of the floor trying to calm the panic in his heart. On a chair beside the bed, his leathers sat calmly folded beneath his hunting knife and sheath. These things alone in this chamber were his, and his mind wrapped itself around them, groping for meaning.
Then he remembered. The forest, the horse he’d found outside the tavern. A table of endless food. Last night, a kind man helped him into this bed and stirred the fire—he looked at the fireplace where only a few coals glowed. Sedrik was the man’s name. Lord Daerwin’s valet. At Castle Brannagh.
He remembered now where he was—
Dead to the tribe, buried in an Invader tomb.
—but his heart still heaved against the closed space. He could not seem to get a full breath.
He ran to the window, pulled it open and took the cold air so deeply into his lungs that he coughed, but now at least the openness around him eased his soul, and he could breathe again. The morning sky was still dark. A few stars were beginning to fade into gray light, and before long, the sun would be up. And he would greet it as he should, as his father had taught him before he died.
Chul took his knife and climbed up on the windowsill to bathe in the fresh cool air of the morning, to breathe in all its myriad flavors of stables, rotting leaves and freshly cut grains from the fields outside the castle wall. Warm aromas of cooking rose to him from the kitchenhouse, and his stomach growled. He was amazed that he could be hungry again already.
In the bailey gardens below his window, a few of the knights were out exercising their horses before breakfast. They did not wear their curious metal plates, and their massive warhorses moved as if they had no riders at all, prancing and dodging playfully along the paths. The knights were far enough below him that their voices were no more than a quiet mumble, but occasionally a comment from one would raise a short explosive laugh in the others, or they would fall to good-natured sparring as warriors would.
He watched them as a wolverine watches bears. He’d heard stories of the Invaders all his life, but he’d never seen so many together before. The Storykeepers told the stories of the Before Time, of the time before the scattered clans were reunited under the Verge of Anado, and the strange picture-talk of the Old Voice painted the Invaders mysterious and cold, unapproachable, even superhuman. The clans were supposed to welcome the Storykeepers and learn from them, but the stories were so perfectly arranged to teach a lesson, he always found himself yawning just to see a Storykeeper come to the fire.
His father had also told him stories of the Before Time, but his stories were in plain Dhanani, and these were all stories of pain and hatred. Vaccar’s Invaders were ruthless and bloodthirsty killers. They hunted and killed entire clans for sport, flayed children alive and fed them to their dogs, and always, it seemed, because of one Dhanani boy’s moral failings. The stories ran together in his mind, one horror after another. But more than the stories, Chul remembered the savage beating he’d gotten for asking what came before the Before Time.
Aidan’s stories were the best. He usually told about the Invaders’ war, of fighting beside them against the monster Kadak, and it was from Aidan that Chul had learned that the Invaders bathed in water and slept enclosed in stone, that they dressed in sliding metal plates for battle, that their women fought beside their men. Of the three, he thought Aidan’s stories held the greatest mark of truth, but he had never dreamed of finding out for himself.
His breath quickened. He had seen it himself now, some of it, and he could tell them at the story fire. He had seen Lady Renda, a woman who could put the warriors of the tribe to shame, and he had feasted with the Invaders at their table. He had even slept like them, bedded down in soft cloth sheets under a sky of stone, something Aidan had never had the courage to do—the warriors would cry out in amazement!
Except…
Except that he would never join them at the fire now.
He fought the tears back and stared at the horizon. He was dead to them, dead to his tribe. He would never complete his Rite of Manhood. He would have no home, no name. He would have no mate, no sons; his father’s line would die with him, just as it would have if Chief Bakti had killed him. The only difference was in how much he would suffer before it was over.
But who controlled that now?
Sunlight crept across the land toward the castle, toward him, the hot plains predator stalking its prey. The sun was the Hunter of Men, the fiercest of Nekraba’s beasts. The day it could sneak up on a hunter was the day he would die.
Today, if he so chose.
He stood on the sill and looked down the side of the castle wall. It was high enough. A fall from here would kill him, but he would not leave it to chance. His hand tightened around the hilt of his hunting knife, the knife he had made for himself, the knife his father had thrown into the dirt in disgust—
This knife could not kill a sickly rat.
—and he pressed it against his belly with a sob. He set his toes at the edge of the sill and bent his knees, ready to jump, ready to fly, if only for a moment.
Just as the light touched him, he thrust the knife up over his head in defiance, the warrior’s challenge to the sun. The first ray of sunlight glinted angrily over his blade; the predator bared its fangs in defeat. No. He would not die today. Tomorrow, maybe, but not today. Then, with the sun fully on him, he lowered the knife again and slipped down into his chamber from the windowsill.
* * *
Daerwin of Brannagh watched the sentry turn on his heel and walk away before he looked down at the sealed letter just put into his hand. He had been expecting it, he supposed, or should have been. He lowered himself into the chair and set the unopened scrollcase on his desk to glare at it a while, to burn it away to ash with his very gaze if he could. But he could not, and after but a few moments of staring at it, he lifted it with the idea of breaking the familiar seal.
But his eye was drawn up by movement at the door to see one of his knights standing there even before
the young man could make bold enough to knock.
Now, having been seen, the knight cleared his throat. “A word, my lord?”
“Kerrick, good morning.” The sheriff stood and smoothed his hands over his doublet, taking the time to let his eye travel over the young knight and gain some idea of his purpose. Kerrick stood before him in full armor and surcoat, except that he carried his helmet in his hands. Behind him, the sheriff could see the knight’s attendants carrying trunks and valises to the entry hall with great haste. He smiled and set the letter down gratefully. “Surely you’re not come to take your leave.”
The young man bowed his head. “I am, my lord Sheriff.” He looked up with a sad smile and handed a well rumpled bit of parchment to the sheriff, gesturing for him to read it. “It’s my father. He is not expected to survive the Feast of Bilkar.” Kerrick cleared his throat uncomfortably. “And so I must to Windale.”
The sheriff nodded and looked down at the note he held. The script was elegant, feminine, though a bit shaken with weariness, he could see, and sorrow.
Kerrick breathed in and looked away while the sheriff read. “My mother speaks of Father’s failing health, aye, but she also mentions a certain growing malaise among the farmers.” When he saw the sheriff look up at him in alarm, he continued. “They press bold upon their rights and demand more and more of us, even the yeomen farmers whose lands we do not govern. Unreasonable, petty demands, my lord; they’ve no idea what they ask.”
“The viscount stands firm, I trust.”
“Aye,” answered the knight, “but since Father refuses them, they take no pains to hide their contempt when our carriages pass.” The corner of his mouth twitched down in worry. “Mother’s great fear, and mine as well, is that, with the Viscount of Windale upon his deathbed...”
“Indeed, they may grow bolder still.” After a moment’s thought, Lord Daerwin clapped his hand against Kerrick’s shoulder. “I shall send some knights with you, the better to help your farmers see reason, aye? Choose whom you will, as many as you need; bid them return to us at your leisure, when you are assured of control again.” Lord Daerwin smiled reassuringly and put the parchment back into the knight’s hand. “Kerrick, please, convey my kindest regards to your family. Such news of your father saddens me, and that your farmers should take advantage of his ill health thus...” He shook his head. “I hold Taynor of Windale a dear friend and a brave ally. Should the worst—”
“Should the worst befall us,” spoke Lord Kerrick, drawing himself up, “know that the new viscount is likewise a Knight of Brannagh and holds those of this house as dear as his own.” He bowed before the sheriff. “Should need arise, my lord, you have but to send word.”
The sheriff shook his head. “Kerrick, your first concern is with your family and your lands,” he said, guiding the young knight toward the door. “If we find we just cannot go on without you, trust that we will send for you.” He smiled gently. “But meanwhile, see to your renegades and most especially to your father. I should very much like to see him at Brannagh for the Feast of Didian.”
Kerrick raised his chin bravely. “So should I, my lord, but I fear the tumors have filled too much of his bowel. We have but to make his last days comfortable, I’m afraid.”
“To my sorrow,” breathed the sheriff. “But away then, before you lose the day’s travel. May the gods ride with you.”
“Lord Daerwin,” the knight said rather abruptly, and his face burned red. “Please do take my leave of Lady Renda, as well.” He grinned a moment. “She was to humiliate me again in the practice chamber this evening.” But his grin grew wistful, and he looked down at his helmet. “If you would be so kind, my lord. I should speak to her myself, except...”
But the sheriff had already looked away, his mind upon the matter of the other letter, the one that sat glaring at him from within its scrollcase on his desk. “Except that you must be on your way. Of course I shall.” He smiled and waved once more to the knight before he closed the audience chamber door behind him.
Then, with nothing left to distract him, he picked up the case and cracked open the seal, the asp guardant, the fillet d’or that wound round the ornate W. Inside was a letter from the Right Honorable Corin, Earl of Wirthing, full of greetings and grovelings as always, and in the flowing flawless hand of the earl’s scribe. The letter asked most circumspectly and, to his mind, most predictably, after Sir Bernold of Avondale and his sometime companion, Sir Finnig of Estrella, both young knights being bound at last word through Brannagh lands toward Wirthing Castle.
Lord Daerwin sighed and rubbed his eyes before he brought out his own parchments, inks and pens.
* * *
Chul followed Sedrik downstairs hoping to see Lady Renda or perhaps the sheriff and Lady Glynnis at breakfast. He had learned so much from them, and he’d looked forward to hearing more about the history of the House of Brannagh. Instead, he found himself in the great hall of Brannagh, surrounded by a loud crush of knights and squires and pages and servants.
Breakfast at Brannagh was an informal affair with many of the knights coming and going as they would, rather than sitting down to a meal. They took mugs of something hot to drink and rounds of fresh hot bread with butter and cheese on the way to whatever tasks the day held for them. This informality was a holdover from the war, Sedrik explained, when they could not afford much ceremony. But for those who would sit, if only for a few minutes, Greta had set out great pots of baked partridge eggs laced in cream, vats of venison stew, bowls of late fruit from the orchards and plate after plate of her cheese tarts.
After a few shouts of greeting when Sedrik introduced Chul as a friend of Aidan, the men and women at the tables left him to eat in peace, no more or less conscious of him than they were of each other, quietly accepting of his leathers and his unmistakable Dhanani coloring. For the most part. He did see that several of the women were staring at him and smiling, though he did not understand why. For his part, he ate in silence, soaking up every morsel he could of dialect and grammar, nuance and gesture from them.
No one seemed to notice when he finished his breakfast and left the great hall. Sedrik had gone about his own tasks, as had most of the rest of the household, and no one seemed to think he needed an escort. This left him free to explore the castle on his own.
The lay of the keep confused and fascinated him. Corridors wound round the outsides of the central halls, stairways rose from the great hall to the audience chambers and galleries and up yet again to the private wings of the castle, passages leading out to the armory, the scullery, the apartments of the knights and servants. He studied the ancient tapestries and paintings that lined the stone walls, the banners hanging from the gatehouses to proclaim which knights were in residence. All these things might be useful to him one day; he had to drink them all in and store them away.
But more interesting still were the people of Brannagh, the knights, even the occasional farmer or villager come to see the sheriff on some errand. Once he left the main corridors of the keep, he saw only servants—maids, valets, pages and cooks, all setting about the day’s business of running the household.
Invaders were so different from the Dhanani; they wore clothes even in their homes to hide their bodies when just the set of their shoulders left their souls so bare he was embarrassed to watch them. The big men tended to lumber along clumsily with their heads bowed down, their eyes turned away; some others who had a tight, pinched look about them thrust out their chests and strutted by, intent on some errand or other. But the ones he found most interesting were those who held their shoulders small and close, those guilty of some undiscovered mischief, ready to be caught, ready to grovel. Bears, cocks and mice. He smiled. And he, the Dhanani wolf among them.
He trotted quickly up the steps from the audience wing to the private upper corridors. Countless candelabrum on sideboards lit his way, but his body grew heavy and lethargic in the dim light, ready to go back to sleep, and he felt the tightness in his chest again,
the feeling of suffocating. He looked around him, desperate for air, and he saw a large open window at the end of the corridor. Just seeing that window made him feel better; a few quick breaths, and he would be fine.
But ahead of him, he heard one of the doors opening. Instinctively, he ducked under one of the sideboards just as Sedrik let himself out of a bedchamber. While the door was opened, only for a second, Chul caught a glimpse of what lay beyond it, and he forgot about the window. He had to go inside that room, if only to look, if only to let his eyes lay claim to that secret space.
Once Sedrik was gone, he crossed the hallway and pushed the door in. It was not locked. A fire burned in the fireplace to fill the chamber with warmth, and the bedclothes were already turned down, with a white rose of mourning set upon the outermost pillow. A forbidding wardrobe of rare velmon wood stood against the wall opposite the bed, with a large northern bear’s fur spread on the floor. Two huge tapestries hung on the other walls, ornate intricate things full of tiny men at war, and a great cloth screen stood drawn away from the window where the sunlight poured in.
But Chul’s eyes fell on something more personal, something of gold. Articles of power.
He picked up the heavy gold hairbrush and ran his finger over the Brannagh coat of arms, the same that was on the back of the companion mirror. His fingers trembled on the gold. The handle was cold at first, but it was taking heat from his own hand, from his own excitement. With it, he had power, if nowhere else but in his own mind. He would know, no matter what the sheriff did to him later, no matter how he cursed him or beat him or even killed him, that he had won this time.
The boy deserves to die.
He clutched the brush in his hand. He would know—
His mother must have whored herself to a Bremondine.
—no matter how his father punished him—
No son of mine is he.
—and nothing could take that away! He jerked at his leather tunic to loosen it, to stow the brush in it—
Sword of Hemlock (Lords of Syon Saga Book 1) Page 13