Guardian Last (Lords of Syon Saga Book 2)

by Jordan MacLean

  “Yes, yes,” the earl said impatiently, “the Dhanani are terribly savage and stupid. They cannot possibly understand the consequences when they ape our gestures. What of it? Were I to respond to every vulgarity from the Dhanani, I should never have an end of it. This is of no interest to our discussions.”

  And Glynnis had thought Moncliff lacked subtlety. Something she had learned as a girl at Berendor was that one never knew which tiny piece of information might be the key to unlocking an entire mystery, so it was important to gather it all. From what he said, she had already learned that the assumption she and the others had made, that Moncliff came to reinforce Wirthing in seeking for Brannagh refugees, had been wrong. Moncliff’s intention was to attack the Dhanani, and he was seeking Wirthing’s help to do so. Furthermore, Wirthing had no idea that she and the fugitives from Brannagh sheltered among them.

  A gesture, Moncliff had said. A physical gesture, not a message, and the gesture was apparently not common to the Dhanani themselves. Her mind raced.

  Clearly a Dhanani had gone through Moncliff’s lands, which were far outside their normal range, but Bakti had not mentioned sending any messengers or scouts east. Further, it was a tribesman whose knowledge of Invader ways was fluent and instinctive, someone who must have lived among them for some time. Aidan was the only one…

  No.

  Chul.

  Her heart jumped. She was certain it could be no other. But how? The last she had heard of them, Chul was with Gikka, hiding in Farras after the fall of Graymonde. When Brannagh fell and they’d had to go into hiding, she’d sent Dane to seek Gikka and the boy there, but they were nowhere to be found. Chul would have no reason to have gone so far east without her. Gikka might have her own reasons to go east, certainly, but based on the timing, Glynnis allowed herself to hope, however faintly, that perhaps those reasons involved Daerwin and Renda.

  Moncliff gasped. “But you promised we would talk about––”

  “I promised no such thing. Is this what you came to discuss, my Lady?” Wirthing said over him, casting a hard look at the boy. “Dhanani savages and their insults?”

  “It’s certainly more interesting than cloaks and frocks,” the boy huffed, turning his chair toward the fire.

  “Truly,” she said diplomatically, “I find the whole business fascinating.”

  “For my part, I had thought we might discuss how to arrange for peace, since that is the customary use of parlay.” Wirthing sat back in his chair and crossed his hands on the table. “Suffice it to say, my Lady, that both our houses are diminished by this conflict between us.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “being destroyed does tend to diminish a house, it’s true.”

  “Quite. You have nothing, I have everything. Even with nothing, however, you still have the standing of a noble house second only to the duke’s own. Not to mention your own title as Baroness of Berendor.”

  “That title resides with my brother, Ander.”

  Wirthing smiled curtly. “Yes, of course. In any case, my thought is that perhaps by joining our fortunes, we would at once improve both our circumstances, yours far more than mine, and that together we might be of even more use in aiding the marquess in his little squabble.”

  Moncliff was incensed. “Squabble?”

  “Yes.” Wirthing’s tone was unmistakably final. “Squabble.”

  “Honestly,” the boy sulked.

  The earl picked up her gloves rather lazily and looked at them, a dull realization dawning in his eyes. “These are lovely, my Lady. Exquisite work.” He cast a meaningful glance to Moncliff. “Did you see these gloves, Lord Banya? Dhanani leatherwork, if I am not mistaken. I’ve always wanted some, but alas, the tribesmen will not sell them to Invaders, as they call us, not at any price.”

  “No, in fact, they will not.” Glynnis smiled easily and took them from him. “I’ve had these for years, a gift from the Dhanani shaman who rode with Renda during the war. Surely you remember Aidan Ka-Zoga?”

  “Not satisfied with cloaks and frocks,” Banya sighed, “now you must talk of gloves? What next, hair ribbons and hats?”

  Gods, but the boy was dense. She looked the gloves over and rubbed at an imaginary spot on them. “A pity they are starting to wear so in the palm. I despair of replacing them.” She looked between the two men, still smiling, watching carefully. “A shame I lost all my other gloves when…” she looked at Moncliff sympathetically and shrugged. “Well, but how someone treats an ancient ally does not necessarily indicate how he will treat a new one, does it? You mustn’t worry, Lord Banya.”

  The earl’s smile froze.

  “Of course.” She watched Banya staring into the fire, still oblivious, and shook her head.

  Wirthing cleared his throat. “As I was saying—”

  She spoke over him, all the laughter and playfulness gone from her voice. “You received Lord Daerwin’s letter, I take it?”

  He looked at her sharply.

  She watched him rub at the chill he took and wondered what it was he’d seen in her blue eyes that struck him so. She fancied that perhaps it was a glint of flint and steel that reminded him of Daerwin.

  “Letter…” he said, obviously stalling.

  She crossed her hands and sat back in the chair. She cast a bemused look at Lord Banya, who stifled a yawn. The brat could not be bothered even to appear to pay attention. “Lord Corin, would you have me bore the marquess further with the rather embarrassing contents of that letter? I can, if I must, but…”

  “No, no,” the earl answered quickly. “I believe I recall the letter in question. Something touching on a brace of murderous thieves and how Daerwin blamed me for what they did.”

  “Bernold of Avondale and Finnig of Estrella are curious names for murderous thieves, are they not? They were your knights, unless you renounced them at some point. Did you? No? I see. As to what they did…”

  Wirthing looked at her, resentment building in his eyes. “Your Lordship,” he said to the marquess, not taking his gaze from her own, “you must pardon me. I had thought this discussion would prove of interest to us both, but I see it will be of interest only to myself and Her Ladyship. I do apologize.” At last he turned his glare away from her and smiled at the boy. “There is no sense in us both wasting our time here. Perhaps you would prefer to take some air.”

  The marquess leapt to his feet. “I think I might! I want to ride out and see how my regiment is faring, in any case. They should be nearly in position to strike by now. I should like to watch them in action! Ladies,” he bowed, and strode for the door.

  In the tenth of a second it took for the earl to glance at Glynnis, she had already damped her reaction.

  She stood and called to the boy as he fairly ran from the room, “A pleasure to have met you, Your Lordship!”

  Wirthing sighed deeply, then looked up at her and laughed a bit sheepishly. “I am mortified, my Lady, just mortified.”

  She smiled warmly, disarmingly. “Take only that shame upon yourself that is rightfully yours, Wirthing. You need not borrow any of his.”

  “Lady,” Nara said, rising. “His Lordship the earl has dismissed his second. If he would be made uncomfortable by my continued presence…”

  Glynnis turned to watch Wirthing’s reaction. As expected, he nearly cursed the air. Form would not allow him to ask this ancient woman to give up her seat, yet she was now the sole witness to what they would decide, and she was far from sympathetic to him. Had he dismissed Nara, the nun would be free to warn the Dhanani at once, something she supposed Wirthing had weighed since he had obviously developed suspicions that they were sheltering with the tribesmen.

  No, he would not allow the marquess to fall to fall into Dhanani hands, much as she was sure the thought tempted him. As tedious as the boy Banya was, he was the strongest ally Wirthing had at the moment. So, as irritating as it might be, she assumed he would support the boy through cutting his teeth on the Dhanani before calling on him to bring his forces to bear a
gainst Maddock and his men to retake Brannagh lands. Thus he could not afford to see the marquess betrayed or his forces weakened, so…he would not allow Nara to leave, which suited her just as well.

  He smiled coldly. “That will not be necessary, madam. I pray you, stay and warm your bones as long as you like.”

  “If my Lady would have me stay,” Nara smiled pointedly, “I will stay.”

  Glynnis looked at Corin for a moment, an enigmatic smile on her lips while Nara’s dismissive words hung in the air just long enough. “Of course I would have you stay, Nara. After all, we may need a witness.” She turned to Corin. “Enough of this. The letter, my Lord of Wirthing.”

  “What of it?”

  “I would know that you read it. Then I would know why your knights joined the attack on Castle Brannagh.” She settled into her seat. “Until I know both of these things, we have nothing to discuss.”

  “Very well, let us speak frankly.” He walked toward the fire. “I did read Lord Daerwin’s letter several times, and it cut me to the quick. I wish I could tell you that Bernold and Finnig were disgraceful knights, but they were not. They were heroes in the war, did you know that?” She shook her head, and he smiled sadly. “Of course not. No one does. The only heroes in this war were the famous Knights of Brannagh. I understood my men’s resentment. I also felt it, to be frank. I fought beside Lord Daerwin and Lord Brada in nearly every battle across the central plains, yet all cheers went to Brannagh! Brannagh! No glory came to Wirthing.”

  Glynnis nodded, surprised at his honesty. “I understand.”

  “Do you?” Corin chuckled darkly. “This is nothing new. Wirthing has always lived in Brannagh’s shadow. Occasionally over the centuries, Brannagh daughters have become Wirthing brides, and we have been called ally for centuries, but generation after generation, my title, my honor, my…”

  “Infamy?” she offered.

  “I was going to say ‘prestige.’ My name’s prestige has stood hopelessly overshadowed by that of the dukes’ second sons, the Sheriffs of Brannagh. Generation after generation.” His hand brushed the hilt of his sword. “My sword was sworn to Damerien, as surely as Brannagh’s. My house is as ancient, yet always favor falls to Brannagh.” He looked at Glynnis for a long time. “Always.”

  The longing in his eyes made her look away.

  “Indeed,” she replied, “and your house and your knights have always served courageously.” Glynnis brushed what seemed a stray wisp of hair from her cheek, and Nara nodded faintly. In spite of Wirthing’s apparent candor, they both felt the tension building. “The duke recognized you and decorated your men generously.”

  “Yes, yes, he did,” Wirthing replied impatiently. “And as my ancestors have done for generations, we accepted his tepid accolades and stood aside while Brannagh took the actual glory.”

  He turned, his face reddening as his anger grew. “When I read what Bernold and Finnig did in the sheriff’s careful words, something within me awakened, something angry, something proud that has been asleep for generations while we of Wirthing always stood aside to let the crowds cheer for Brannagh.”

  “Their actions made you proud?” Her eyes narrowed. “Avondale and Estrella were villains! They sold our granddaughter , our Pegrine, to her death. A seven years’ child!”

  He waved dismissively. “Oh, the child meant nothing. Not even to them. No, what they did was far more extraordinary. They did the unthinkable! They defeated Brannagh!” At once, his face was inches from hers, pressing her back against the hard chair, his breath hot on her face. “Don’t you see? Wirthing knights hurt Brannagh!”

  Her heart was pounding. Through the corner of her eye, she saw a faint glow rising around Nara’s face, but she dared not look, or Wirthing would follow her gaze. Her fingers trembled, seeking the hilt of the Dhanani knife at her hip.

  “They showed me it could be done. Brannagh could be defeated, and I, Corin of Wirthing, could at last take from him everything that should have been mine!” She felt his gaze travel over her face and her body, as if he could see right through her cloak. “Everything.” He laughed and pushed away from her, his hand tapping menacingly on his sword. “Of course the sheriff’s pathetic whining missive only fired my resolve further. I was already in preparations when Maddock came with his proposal. Then it was but to find a pretext so that my men did not balk.”

  “Your men still had their honor.” Glynnis breathed deeply, trying to regain her composure. Nara whispered softly where she sat, the glow about her building slightly and being damped away as fast as it appeared.

  “The plague provided just that pretext,” he said, ignoring her. “So now the house of Brannagh is defeated, the sheriff’s bride will be mine as she should always have been.”

  Her voice was no more than a whisper. “I beg your pardon? Do you think I should be married to the very man who wished my husband killed?”

  “I do.”

  “I shall not.” She stood, her voice calm.

  “You shall!” He grabbed her arm and shoved her roughly into the chair. “What else can you do, woman? You have nothing! You have no one but this decrepit nun! How can you possibly retake your dead husband’s lands? Even if you could, how could you hope to hold them? You need me!”

  For the first time since she’d arrived at Wirthing Castle, she had no words.

  His tone softened abruptly, alarmingly. He smiled, shaking his head. “But this is not how I meant for this to be. This is no way to make a new start.”

  She watched with wide eyes as he took her hand and knelt in front of her where she sat in the chair.

  “I have dreamt of this moment for so very long, and now it has come to pass, and I find myself almost speechless. Glynnis of Berendor, I will make you queen. Hero that he may have been, this is something your sheriff could never have done. If you will be married to me, Syon will know peace. I even promise amnesty for those of Brannagh, if any yet live.” He smiled humbly. “And I, Corin, Earl of Wirthing, someday King of Syon, will devote all the days of my life to your happiness.”

  She stared at him in silence for a long time, a storm of emotions churning in her breast, words yearning to be spoken. Slowly, the realization crystallized that there could indeed be only one resolution to this conflict.

  “If I agree to marry you,” she said softly, “you would grant them all amnesty?”

  He nodded, though her use of the word “all” seemed to bother him. Ah, so he was still calculating, as she’d thought.

  A reluctant smile crossed her lips, and laughter twinkled across her bright blue eyes as her tears welled. “In truth, I weary of living as a refugee, and I worry for them. I suppose I have no choice. I would do anything to restore Brannagh and to keep my loyal servants safe…” She squeezed his hand warmly and after a moment, shyly, reluctantly, she nodded.

  Having said that, she feared he would not think her words sincere, but he laughed, hearing from her only her acceptance, and drew her up from the chair to take her in his arms.

  Steel flashed as she rose, and in the next moment, Corin, Earl of Wirthing, fell backward thrashing to the ground, his throat laid open to the bone.

  The words yet yearned to be spoken, words of scorn and spite, words of hate and anguish that had filled her breast since Renda and Gikka had brought Pegrine’s poor little body home from the glade where she had been murdered––words of emptiness and bitterness at the loss of her husband and her daughter, her home.

  Instead, Glynnis stood silent, satisfied merely to watch the life drain from the earl’s astonished eyes as the rhythmic gouts of blood became weaker. When the gore only flowed and then seeped, she came near and wiped Aidan’s blade clean on Wirthing’s silk doublet, replaced it in the sheath at her hip beneath her cloak. By now, the glow of B’radik’s approval, which Nara had bestowed upon her and which had glinted off the blade like Dhanani sunfire, had faded.

  “Praise to Rjeinar,” she muttered, unpinning the verinara leaf from inside her blood spattered cloak
and dropping it on Wirthing’s lifeless astonished face. “Vengeance is done.”

  In the dark hidden niche where the two men had first spied on the women when they arrived, the young Marquess of Moncliff sat back, carefully absorbing what he’d just seen.

  Twenty-Four

  The knight commander raised his hand in exasperation, and the rest of his men slowed their horses behind him. The damnable terrain seemed ever to shift beneath them in the lengthening shadows of the afternoon just as it had since they’d entered the Kharkara Plains. The light foreshortened every feature and flattened every hillock and ravine into the vast sea of grasses and low trees, so that what looked from a distance to be no more than ripples caused by a taste of wind were as often as not rolling dips or even deep gorges. Several times the soldiers had drawn up to what had looked to be a reasonable path through the scrub, only to find themselves looking over an impassable ravine and having to find another way. They’d lost hours backtracking and meandering along countless such canyons already, and still they had not found Moncliff’s men. He squinted at the sun where it was but a few hours above the horizon.

  He did not want to allow himself the luxury of resentment at having been sent into the cold and treacherous Kharkara plains, he and what remained of his men, as nursemaid to that insufferable brat of a marquess. The boy was as arrogant as he was ignorant of war, and his rabble––a rabble they had yet to locate––were too ill trained to understand the difference between hiding from the enemy and hiding from one’s allies. They were not at the rendezvous point when Wirthing’s men arrived, and the scouts had found no sign of where they’d gone. Reluctantly, he’d moved his men forward toward the objective on the assumption that Moncliff’s men had grown impatient waiting and moved ahead without them because, while Moncliff’s men had no discipline, by the gods, his men did.