by Court Ellyn
In the tavern after dark, he shared half a bottle with Captain Leng, then retired to the keep for his supper. Lord Stormtyde agreed to dine with him. As soon as the castellan arrived in the dining hall Kethlyn tried to push two bottles of wine into his hands.
Stormtyde looked at the offering with dull eyes and a forced smile and said, “I’m a sober man, Your Grace.”
Hadn’t Stormtyde emptied his goblet the night before? Yes, Kethlyn was sure of it. Why should he refuse now? “Take the bloody wine, Cenaidh. It’s a gift. And a reward for enduring us these past few days.”
The castellan cleared his throat and clenched his pink calloused hands behind his back. “It’s spoils, sir. I had no part in the looting. I shall accept no loot, if you’ll forgive me.”
“I won’t. And damn your principles, Cenaidh.” Kethlyn set the wine beside his own plate at the head of the table. “I shall keep it myself then and enjoy every drop on your behalf.”
“As it please Your Grace.”
“As it please me, yes, as it please me. Well, it doesn’t. But I have a job to do, haven’t I?”
“His Grace is not obligated to justify his actions to me.”
“Damn right.” He dropped into his chair. Footmen swarmed him with one dish after another. While he chose his portions, he said, “We’ve beggared the countryside, Cenaidh, but I’m a good soldier. And better these supplies go to our troops than to our enemies, no?”
Stormtyde sat on his right. The ends of his yellow moustache twitched as he considered his reply. “As you say, sir.”
They dined in silence, which provided Kethlyn no further excuse to avoid his task. As soon as he’d had his fill of rich dishes and poor, judgmental company, he climbed to his suite and glared resentfully at the writing desk. Just write the bloody letter, he told himself. Tactful or not, the message remained the same. He dipped the quill to pick up where he left off, but a voice stopped him.
“Cousin?”
The magical window sparked and rippled over his left shoulder.
Kethlyn jumped from the chair. “Your Majesty! I’m so happy to see you. I have…” Questions. It wasn’t his place to question the king, no matter how unconscionable his orders might be.
Valryk was more gaunt and hollow-eyed than the night he’d contacted Kethlyn at Windhaven, little more than a week ago. The exquisite burgundy doublet and sable cloak he wore swallowed his frame. His eyes flicked side to side, nervous inside bruised sockets. Was he eating at all? He didn’t give Kethlyn time to inquire. “Did you find them? The heirs, I mean.” His voice seeped through the pulsing barrier of the window, a wisp of what it should be. A pale tongue licked cracked lips.
“Yes, sire. I found them.”
“Good. Very good.” So profound was his relief that he sagged in his chair. Why were these heirs in particular so important to his peace of mind? Gripping the carved arms of the chair, he pulled himself upright again. Why were his knuckles scabby? “I’m sorry, Kethlyn. It must’ve been a difficult task, but I am proud—”
Raising his chin, Kethlyn interrupted the flow of praise. “They’re not dead, sire. I’ve not executed them. Yet.” His mouth had turned to cotton. He wished for a hard gulp of liquor.
In a sudden panic, Valryk glanced to his right, at someone beyond the window’s crackling frame. Whoever it was mumbled something. Valryk’s eyes and nose turned red, and Kethlyn thought he might burst into tears. “You disobeyed me? You don’t understand what you’ve done! Tell me you haven’t let them go.”
“No, they’re in my custody, sire, here in the keep. Did you know they were children?”
“What?” There was no comprehension in Valryk’s face, only horror at Kethlyn’s defiance.
“Did you know they were children?”
Valryk’s mouth worked, but he said nothing.
“I would have His Majesty see them for himself.” Kethlyn backed from the crackling window; it drifted after him toward the parlor door. Down the corridor, two guards snapped to attention. “Bring Lady Cait and her brother.”
When Kethlyn turned to plead for patience, he found Valryk wringing his hands. “It doesn’t matter what they are, Kethlyn. Ancient as the mountains or newborn babes. It doesn’t matter at all. You should have done as I ordered.”
“Yes, sire, I’m sure of that. But, please, you may change your mind after—”
“I won’t! I can’t.”
The guards ushered the prisoners into the parlor. Kethlyn grabbed them both by the arms and drew them close to the window.
“Goddess be good, what is that?” cried the boy. His sister screeched and tried to scramble away from the blatant display of magic, but Kethlyn held her fast.
“Your Majesty, may I present Lady Cait and Lord Carysio? They are seventeen and fourteen.” Valryk ducked his eyes, refusing to look at them. Kethlyn was astonished. “Hear me, sire, I beg you. Their parents were killed during the battle for Endhal. We inspected every inch of Heatherton and interrogated the people. There is no army gathering there.”
“Not now, surely,” said a voice so silken it sounded oily. Lothiar sidled into view. He stood behind the king’s chair, half hidden in shadow. He wore a hooded cloak for some damned reason. “If you did as we asked, you have destroyed all resistance, Your Grace. You’ve secured the townsfolk, have you not? Or did you disobey that order as well?”
“Yes! I mean, no. Yes, we’ve taken hostages. Over two hundred of them. But they are innocent, Captain! These children are innocent. Would you have me kill them anyway?”
Lady Cait whimpered and strained against his grip. Her brother was clenching his eyes shut again.
“Innocent?” Lothiar said. “These children will grow up and wield their authority like a sword. They will seek vengeance.”
“And rightly so. There is nothing left of their city. Are we responsible for that? Are you responsible, Captain?” Please say no. Please say Aralorri banners weren’t seen because it wasn’t Aralorr’s doing.
Lothiar ignored the question entirely. He leaned over the back of the chair and, glaring at Kethlyn with cold gray eyes, said in Valryk’s ear. “I will step through and do it myself if this cowardly cousin of yours will not.”
“I am no coward,” Kethlyn declared. “You will watch your tongue, Captain. Who the hell do you think you are?”
A raised eyebrow was Lothiar’s only response.
“Please, Kethlyn,” said Valryk, “be mindful. For your own safety.”
“My safety? Begging your pardon, but Lady Cait and her brother are not—” No, indeed, they were not a threat, and all at once Kethlyn realized that it was not to Endhal’s heirs that the king referred. Valryk isn’t ill, nor is he grieving. He’s terrified. From what pit had he raked up this Lothiar anyway? “A brilliant strategist,” Valryk had called him. “Foreign, but brilliant.” He had never specified the captain’s country of origin, come to think of it, and it hadn’t been Kethlyn’s place to ask, lest he sound doubtful of the Black Falcon’s judgment.
Lothiar raised his chin; the gaze he cast down his nose seemed a mile long. “We’ll give you one more chance, Your Grace. Queen Da’era is amassing an army, make no mistake. The missive you were writing?”
Kethlyn glanced toward the writing desk. How long had the captain been snooping through his rooms?
“Yes, that letter. Rewrite it and explain to the queen that you have hanged half the hostages in your care. You will hang the other half if she fails to comply. That, I think, will provide stronger persuasion. Of course, you must follow through. Immediately. And you will start with these two, here, now. Send Da’era their heads as proof of your word.”
Kethlyn dragged the heirs slowly away from the window.
Lothiar’s teeth grit audibly. “Bare your sword, sir, and get it done! That’s an order.”
Lady Cait broke into sobs.
Carysio dropped to all fours, breaking Kethlyn’s grip. “Can’t we buy our lives? Please, we can give you our word. We won’t avenge our p
eople. Upon the Mother’s bosom, I swear it! We swear! Swear, Cait!”
Lothiar groaned at the tedium. “His Grace has a weak stomach. If I must do your work for you, I will raze your lands as well, starting with every holding south of the Silver Mountains. Do we have an understanding?”
Kethlyn nearly choked. “How dare you. The king will not allow it.”
“This king?”
Valryk gave a tiny shake of his head and whimpered, “Cousin—”
Lothiar’s hand descended upon his shoulder, restraining him, hushing him, and Kethlyn saw with clear eyes. Valryk had nothing to do with the orders he’d been following. Every time Kethlyn had a question or a doubt, Valryk folded and Lothiar took over. Memorized lines didn’t account for questions and doubts. Kethlyn’s knees tried to buckle. He forced them to hold him up. At his feet, Cait embraced her brother tight. They traded tears and promises to be brave, no matter what happened.
Valryk shoved aside Lothiar’s hand and dived for the window. One hazel eye and half his mouth filled the view, quivering as if they were a reflection in a pool. “Kethlyn, help me!” he screamed. “Get me out of here! They’ll torture me, Kethlyn. March on Bramoran! Save me—!”
With a roar, Lothiar overturned the chair. Valryk tumbled from view. A boot lashed toward Kethlyn’s face. The window vanished with an irate splash.
He stood amid the rug, conscious of neither the sky crashing atop his head, nor of the walls shrinking around him, but only of the image of Lothiar’s hand gripping the king’s shoulder. Lothiar’s hands, moving all the pieces.
The sudden disappearance of the magic window had startled the sobbing into silence. Endhal’s heirs stared up at him with large, fearful eyes. “Get them … get them out of here,” he ordered the guards.
The two men scrambled to drag Cait and Carysio off the rug. As soon as the door slammed shut behind them, Kethlyn ran to the balcony, threw aside the doors, and flung himself against the rail. The Great Fire Sea sparkled black under a black sky. A shattered red moon drifted through threadbare clouds. Black ghost ships hovered on the sea, their lamps like distant eyes. Lightning speared the horizon. It was like staring into the Abyss. Or a prison cell. Oh, Goddess, what was he to do?
Was it too late to answer Uncle Thorn’s summons and bring his army to Da’s aid? The land is full of traitors, said Valryk’s letter. And Kethlyn was surely one of them. What had he done? He’d be blamed for the deaths at Bramoran, for razing cities, for everything Lothiar had ordered done in Valryk’s name. No, he couldn’t go back to his family now. If they didn’t cast him to the wolves, they would surely devour him themselves.
And Valryk? Should he march on Bramoran, as the king pleaded? Was that part of Lothiar’s game, too? Oh, Goddess, he didn’t know who to trust, nor even his own judgment.
At least Lothiar had made his intentions clear. Kethlyn had no reason to doubt that the captain would carry out his threats. Evaronna was in danger. That was his fault, too. He had to protect his people. But from what? He no longer had reason to doubt the accounts he’d heard from Lady Cait and Lord Stormtyde and the clam-digger Angelyn. If Lothiar could use magic to open a window that allowed men to speak across hundreds of miles, why should it be impossible to imagine that he commanded an army that marched unseen?
Step through, Lothiar had said … I will step through … Kethlyn had touched the magical window once, and the crackling energies had shocked his fingers. Was Lothiar able to make a different kind of window? A door that would permit him to cross from Bramoran to Brimlad in a single step? If voices could pass, why not people, too? His breath caught in his throat. “The heirs.”
In half a dozen steps he was out in the corridor. The guards fumbled with the keys, such was their haste to open the door for him. Kethlyn feared he’d find Lothiar standing over corpses, but as the door swept open, Cait cried out, “Don’t! Please.”
Carysio jumped in front of his sister. “Don’t hurt her. I’ll kill you first.”
“I’ve not come to hurt you,” Kethlyn said. “But someone else might. Come with me.”
They hurried through the corridors. Kethlyn called for Cenaidh. Word traveled fast as footmen and stewards scurried ahead of him. Halfway down the keep’s grand staircase, Kethlyn saw the castellan running to answer the summons; he was still buckling on his sword belt. They met on the landing. “Your Grace, what’s wrong? What are they doing here?”
“They’re in danger.”
“Of course they are!” The blame in the castellan’s glare struck Kethlyn hard.
“Not from me! We must find a place to hide them. The inn on the bridge. The fine one. They’ll be surrounded by a thousand men-at-arms. What safer place—?”
“I don’t understand.”
“The Leanians are not our enemies, we’ve made a terrible mistake. I have made a terrible mistake. Take them, Cenaidh. Make them comfortable. I’ll meet you at the inn shortly. I must speak with Captain Leng first. My regiment and I are leaving for Windhaven immediately. Once Lady Endhal and her brother are comfortable—”
Cait stepped forward. “Lady Endhal?” Confusion filled her green eyes.
“Your aunt is dead. I have no doubt about that. At … at my king’s command.” His voice cracked. He ducked his face. How humiliating to let this girl and Lord Stormtyde see him break into sobs. He clenched his jaw and breathed to composed himself. “Cenaidh, once they’re safe, you’re to pull Brimlad’s citizens inside the walls and lock the gates. Some of the supplies my men collected started east this afternoon, but use the rest for yourselves if it comes to a siege.”
“What are you saying, Your Grace?”
“That the monsters who destroyed Endhal may be on their way. It’s my fault.”
~~~~
17
A damp cloth dabbed at Valryk’s eyebrow. The sting roused him from darkness. Water trickled down his temple into his ear. What new torture was this? Wake him only to burn him again? No, let me sleep, let me sink, let me die. Goddess’ mercy, his body ached. His face felt feverish, stretched out of shape. He tried to open his eyes, but only one obeyed. A high cracked ceiling flickered with lamplight. He knew the pattern of cracks well. They latticed his cell in the old prison tower. His nightmare continued.
Water sloshed softly to his left. No, no more basins, no more lies, he wanted to plead, but his mouth seemed to be glued shut, his throat clogged with something he couldn’t swallow.
The cloth returned, wet and cold, and laid over his unresponsive eye. The throb of the bruise was enough to jog his memory. Valryk had never been struck in the face before. Who would have dared? He must’ve blacked out after the second blow. At least, he remembered Lothiar’s fist connecting only twice, though the beating must’ve gone on much longer. His shoulders and ribs throbbed. One of his hands, too. Why would Lothiar stomp his hands? And his feet. Always his feet. But that was from the brazier. Balm, he tried to say. Please, for the burns. He just grunted instead and swallowed the wad of blood in his throat. He lurched up, retching. Pain seared his side. A hand steadied him, pressed him down again.
“Lie still, Valryk.”
Oh, Goddess, that voice. That sweet, musical, treacherous voice. Lasharia. He collapsed onto the stale pillow and with one eye glared up at her. Motherly concern creased her forehead, hardened her mouth. That beautiful mouth he had loved kissing. Silver-gold curls spilled over her shoulder. A gown of pale blue silk gleamed like innocence in the lamplight. False innocence.
He tried to shake her off, but her hands persisted in cleaning the blood from his face. “Lying whore,” he croaked. In the weeks since his imprisonment he’d seen barely a glimpse of her. Her task of winning him was complete. Now she had ogres to order around and children to slaughter, or so he assumed. Why come to him now? What did she want? More importantly, what did Lothiar want? “Don’t touch me. You and your evil magic. You bewitched me with your song.” Notes from a harp rang across the snow. Deep snow, white gown, a voice that broke his heart, the ree
k of dead things. He’d been so young, so desperate for love.
“There was no spell in the song,” Lasharia said. “It was only a song.”
“I don’t believe you.” His mouth hurt when he spoke. Shreds of skin hung loose on the inside of his cheek, and half his tongue was swollen. Testing the cuts, the tip of his tongue felt a jagged edge that hadn’t been there before. One of his teeth was broken.
“I took advantage of a lonely boy. That’s all.”
“Everything you said to me was a lie.”
“If you’ll remember, I rarely spoke at all. I provided you a listening ear. At times I actually cared about your woes. You were a sweet boy, if a self-centered one.” Oh, no, she had said plenty. Manipulation, all of it. She had never cared for him.
“I’ll kill you. Kill you.” He ached too badly to climb off the bed and throttle her. Many a time he’d dreamed of that chance. Wrapping his fingers about her smooth pearlescent throat was often his last thought before he passed out from the pain.
Lasharia sat back in the rickety chair, the blood-stained cloth clenched between her hands. “You might show gratitude. I think Lothiar might’ve beaten you to death had I not stopped him. That Dashka creature certainly had no inclination to help you.”
“I do not thank you.” His hand, the one that still moved, pressed his throbbing side. The toe of a boot had probably cracked a rib or two. It hurt to breathe. “What did Lothiar send you to say? Say it and get out.”
She cast him a half-grin. “That’s fair. I’m surprised he permitted me to visit you, truth be told.”
“You’re his slave, too.”
“No, I’m one of his officers. I’ve served under him for centuries. I would follow his orders to the death, even if I didn’t believe in his ideals. It will all be over soon. In a few weeks we will have won back our homeland. We will have righted a great wrong.”