Allystaire laughed. The solemnity, and the tension it had brought, drained from the tent. “I may still be cursed with pride on that score, Baron,” he said. “I do believe the men who jousted against me, that day, any day past my knighting, knew what they were choosing to do.”
“At least you never killed anyone in the list,” Innadan said.
“I never tried to,” Allystaire replied matter-of-factly. “Some men only ever learn how to use a lance to kill.”
“Perhaps,” Arontis said, clearing his throat and stepping to his father’s side, “we ought to organize a small tourney among the knights and lords here. See if your arm still deserves its fame.”
Before Hamadrain could respond Allystaire was shaking his head and addressing Arontis. “I will not be a part of it if you do. I know you mean well, Lord Innadan. Give the men something to do, let them test the paladin’s strength. It is not a badly-conceived idea, in a way. Yet we do not have the time, and I cannot fight for my own glory.”
Arontis opened his mouth to ask a follow-up question, watching Allystaire carefully, but Hamadrian raised a hand and his son fell silent. “Coldbourne—”
Quietly, but firmly, Allystaire interrupted the Baron. “Stillbright.”
The old man shrugged and went on. “Stillbright has the right of it. We haven’t time for any such nonsense, no matter how much fun it might be to watch him unhorse everyone Harlach brought with him. And while I feel as I do, I am not going to waste any more time abed. Come on, lad, make yourself useful,” Hamadrian said, giving Arontis a shove towards the table where the Baron’s formal clothes, swordbelt, and circlet lay.
Allystaire turned and strode quickly out of the pavilion. He felt the footsteps following him and turned to find Cerisia. With the jewels gone from her mask he could read some grief in her pale eyes.
“Why can you not heal him?”
Allystaire took a few steps to distance them from the guard, gesturing for Cerisia to follow. “My gift is not without limits,” he murmured. “If a wound is new, or the disease new, it can overcome it.” He took a deep breath, and went on. “If not? Let me try to explain this way,” he suddenly said. “I have tried to heal two blind men, one who had been blinded only days before, and one who had lost his eyes years ago. The first, you know—Rede. His wound was fresh, and he had not accepted it, in body or soul. The second, is a man named Waltin. Having been blind for so long, he had decided it was a part of himself. It was who he was. Perhaps it had been so long that there was no longer any wound there for me to heal. I think it is a mixture of both. In Hamadrian’s case?”
The paladin sighed and splayed his hands at his side in a gesture of futility. “He is nearly three-score and ten years old. He is older than Gerard Oyrwyn or my father were when they died. I can prop him up, Archioness. For a time. I cannot make him live past his appointed days.”
“He deserves to live to see a peace made,” Cerisia said, her voice muffled and yet still almost plaintive behind her mask.
“There are uncounted dead who deserve the same, Cerisia. I cannot save them any more than I can him,” Allystaire said. “Yet there are thousands whose days could stretch a long time yet, and who we can save. Hamadrian, barring a greater miracle than my Goddess can deliver, is not fated to leave this place alive. I am sorry.”
“Must you be so cruel about it? Can you not find it in yourself to speak comforting words, rather than blunt truths?”
“The truth is the only thing I can speak. If it is blunt, that is no fault of mine.”
“You are a hard man, Allystaire Stillbright. A hard man.” Cerisia shook her head, sunlight slashing across Allystaire’s face as it reflected from the mask she wore, then she turned and headed back towards Hamadrian’s pavilion.
Allystaire sighed and marched back to his own camp.
CHAPTER 39
Legacy
Allystaire found Gideon standing outside the tent with Norbert. Neither seemed to feel the need to fill the afternoon quiet with conversation, and in fact, they weren’t even facing each other. Gideon was looking off at the mountains looming to the north, while Norbert tried to stay close to the boy without looking like he was trying to.
“What did you see,” Allystaire muttered to Gideon as he stood behind the boy. He almost reached out to put a hand upon Gideon’s shoulder, but stopped himself.
“That Oyrwyn is precisely where you said he’d be.”
Allystaire sighed. “How many men?”
“I don’t know,” Gideon reported. “It was difficult to count and I was distracted,” he admitted.
“How so? Were there priests or sorcerers amongst them?”
“A priest, yes, but I do not think he noticed me. No,” Gideon said, turning to face the paladin. “I decided to use the opportunity to look for the results of my handiwork.”
Allystaire kept his face composed and his tone calm and even, though he felt a jolt of anger. “I needed to know whatever you could tell me about Oyrwyn men in the mountains, Gideon,” he said, and the boy raised a hand, his palm out.
“I know, and you will if you’ll let me explain.”
Allystaire felt his lips press into a thin line. “Then explain quickly,” he muttered.
“I could not count the men at arms because they were well hidden, but I suspect he has more encamped above us than are gathered here. I took note of the badges they wore; the footmen wore the Oyrwyn mountain, with a kind of cord stretched around it, and behind it, crossed, were an axe and a hook, I think.”
“Wind’s Jaw Mountaineers,” Allystaire said, shaking his head. “Good men. Deadly in their own terrain. They would be near useless down here upon the plains, though.” He frowned. “What is he thinking?”
“I couldn’t answer,” Gideon replied. “There were more than a dozen knights, as well, and at least one priest of Braech—but I felt no spark of power from him.”
“A dozen knights? Where is he getting them?”
“Should I have read his letters? Listened to his conversations?”
“Did you see Garth? Any men in the same Coldbourne or Highgate colors?”
Gideon shook his head.
“That is something, at least,” Allystaire said. “What else was it you saw?”
“The Eldest,” Gideon said. “Many hundreds of miles away, upon the sea, with dozens of Dragon Scales. Heading towards Londray, I believe; it is hard to say, exactly.”
“The Eldest?” Allystaire wasn’t sure why the word put a chill down his spine, even as he tugged at a faint memory of it.
“What the sorcerer in charge of a coterie styles himself,” Gideon replied. “The one who gave orders to Bhimanzir, Iriphet, and Gethmasanar.”
“How powerful is he?”
“Very,” Gideon replied.
“Is he a danger to you?”
“If I am unprepared and overconfident again, yes. If there are ways to bring his power to bear against me without touching me with it directly, then very.”
“And you to him?”
Gideon nodded slowly.
“Did he see you? Know you?”
The boy cleared his throat and looked down to the toes of his boots. “I, ah, I may have been bold. I thought to put some fear into him.”
“What did you do?”
“I forced the darkness he carries around him to part for a ray of sunlight. I told him I did not fear him, and told him I welcomed him sailing towards me, since it would make his destruction easier on the both of us.”
Allystaire tried not to smile, though the spark of pride he felt rising up in his chest was unmistakable. “Why?”
Gideon looked earnestly up at him, and said, “I thought it was what you would have done.”
Allystaire smiled and clapped the boy lightly on the shoulder. “I would only ask why you did not simply crush the boat they were upon.”
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“There were innocent men upon it as well, men who may not know, or have control over, what they are bringing here, or why. I could not be sure of destroying him by something as mundane as drowning him, either. I doubt that he breathes in the sense that you and I do.”
Allystaire noted Norbert leaning towards them, his ears all but quivering as he strained to overhear their words. He waved the young man over them. “You might as well hear. This is going to be your war as well, Norbert.”
He had the grace to flush a bit, but all the same, he stepped closer. “A year ago I would’ve said that a boatful of sailors would be a small price to pay for the death of a sorcerer. Or a few Dragon Scales.”
“And now?” Allystaire looked at him sidelong.
Norbert took a deep breath. “If the sailors were all Braechsworn, coming to join the fight, they would be making themselves our enemies. But we cannot know that; it would not be…knightly?” His voice rose on the last word he spoke as he looked tentatively over at Allystaire, brows canted.
“No, Norbert. It would not,” Allystaire confirmed, nodding his agreement.
Satisfied, he drew himself up taller, straightened his shoulders, looked out over the plains and the mountains beyond. “So, what do we do about Oyrwyn?”
“What do you think we ought to do, Gideon?”
The boy frowned. “Try and divine his purpose, I would think. Gather more information, his numbers, his plans.”
Allystaire shook his head. “No. If our numbers could match or exceed his, we might, in order to steal a march or start some kind of maneuver. What we have right now is surprise, initiative—and the biggest weapon in the fight,” he said, pointing at Gideon. “We seize the moment; we act, instead of reacting. And we do it where and when the rest of the Barons can see it.”
The paladin took a deep breath. “Norbert, if you would, run and fetch Armel, Harrys, and Tibult. Then follow me. Gideon, if you would ask Idgen Marte and Torvul to join us.”
“Where?”
“Where the Barons meet,” Allystaire said. “And soon, to take advantage of the light. Are you feeling strong, Gideon?”
“That depends,” the boy replied, “on what you wish me to do.”
* * *
“Stones Above,” Torvul cursed. “Do these men never make haste?
“It’s almost as if they’re accustomed to being the most important person in any gathering,” Idgen Marte said.
Torvul spat, and plopped himself into one of the Baronial seats, tossing a heavy boot casually upon their negotiating table. “Then I s’pose we’ll have to disabuse them of that notion.”
“We are not here to strong-arm them,” Allystaire protested. “We need to make them see reason. I do not want to end decades of foolish succession strife only to bring on murderous revolt.”
Servants and knights began to mill around the edges of the designated meeting place. The former came up bearing trays with pitchers of water, wine, cups, and food. Torvul lifted a pitcher from a passing tray and sniffed at it cautiously, then tipped it back, taking a hearty gulp of it. Smacking his lips, he set it on the table, but still easily within reach, and said, “Idgen Marte, I’ll bet you three links of silver he can’t go half a turn without threatening them.”
“I know better than to wager with you, dwarf,” Idgen Marte shot back.
Allystaire merely scowled, turning his eyes towards the gathering crowd. Baroness Damarind and her daughter were the first to arrive at the table, bringing a small contingent of their black-and-red-clad knights. The Baroness gave Allystaire a long appraising look with her hazel eyes; he felt the palpable weight of them before they moved on to Torvul and then Idgen Marte.
“Would you introduce me to your attendants, Sir Stillbright?”
“Not my attendants,” Allystaire said in a rush, extending a palm towards Torvul, who was already sitting indignantly forward in his chair. “My friends, and fellow servants. They can introduce themselves if they wish, Baroness.”
The dwarf hopped out of his chair, sweeping pitcher and a cup into his hands as he stood. He poured as he walked towards the Baroness, and extended the filled cup with a graceful bow that would’ve done many a courtier proud, and offered her a smile from his cragged face.
“Mourmitnourthrukacshtorvul,” he said as she took the cup. “Student of the last true Stonesinger, Alchemist, Craftsman, and Wit of the Mother.” With the Baroness holding her winecup, he lifted the now half-emptied pitcher to make a toast. “Among my people it is custom to share a drink upon meeting.”
Allystaire could feel Torvul’s easy charm taking the Baroness, and the daughter standing behind her, by surprise. She extended her cup and it softly clanked against the edge of Torvul’s pitcher.
“Baroness Loaisa Damarind,” she said, “Fifteenth of my House, Ruler of the Spines, Eastern Warden of the Vale of Kings.”
The dwarf grinned and tipped back his pitcher, gulping what wine remained in it without spilling a drop onto his cheeks. Eyeing him over the rim of her cup, Loaisa did the same, draining it to a drop with a prodigious gulp. Allystaire noticed her daughter’s eyes widening as she watched her mother drink, saw her body stiffen.
“Well met, Baroness,” Torvul rumbled, as he lowered his now empty pitcher. “Y’can call me Torvul.”
“Then I shall,” Loaisa said, and stepped forward to set her empty cup down on the table as Torvul stumped off. Her sharp eyes flitted from the dwarf to Idgen Marte. “And you are?”
“Idgen Marte,” the warrior rasped, hooking one hand around her swordbelt.
“No titles then? No honorifics?”
She was saved from having to answer that question by the arrival of other Baronial parties. Hamadrian arrived, with Cerisia and Arontis trailing him, walking steadily and without the benefit of anyone’s arm. He went straight to the head of the table. Landen arrived quickly on his heels, no delegation with her; Ruprecht Machoryn and Byronn Telmawr practically raced to claim their seats, while both tried to look like they weren’t hurrying at all.
In Machoryn’s case, Allystaire reflected, with the heavy armor the man now wore, his movements answered too readily to the term waddle.
“We are waiting for Unseldt, aren’t we?” Hamadrian’s voice still had a rasp to it, but it was stronger than it had been a mere turn before. “Well, we needn’t wait dry. Go on and pour the wine, then. I’ve a feeling what the paladin has to say will be sobering enough that we can afford to take a drop, eh?”
The servants immediately flowed to the table, their movements graceful and unobtrusive as they took up pitchers and poured cups of red and white, distributing them to Barons, knights, and attendants.
One came to offer a cup to Allystaire, but Hamadrian raised a hand, stopping the liveried man in his tracks. He pointed to a decanter set at his place on the table. The servant bowed slightly, plucked the top from the delicate crystal, and poured a stream of dark, purple wine into a cup that, at another time, would’ve had Allystaire drooling.
Instead, the entire display of servility and power had Allystaire’s lip curling, his hands clenching at his sides.
Idgen Marte sensed the tension in him, and he heard her voice come to him silently. Now is not the time, Allystaire.
That even good men like Hamadrian Innadan so casually assume so much power—
You can’t change it all at once, and you need him on your side. Turning the man’s wine-pourers against him isn’t the way to do that. Calm yourself and take the cup.
By then the servant had reached him and bowed, eyes lowered. Allystaire reached for the wine but took the moment to study the man: close to his own age, though slight and balding, sweating in dark green trousers and coat with red piping on the seams, collar and cuffs.
Allystaire started to murmur a casual thanks, then impulsively said, “What is your name?”
The servant, his ey
es still downcast and his manner still unobtrusive, gave his head a tiny shake.
“I cannot properly thank you, goodman, if I do not know your name.”
The man swallowed hard and started to back away.
“You have nothing to fear from me,” Allystaire said. “Least of all that I will try to force you to tell me your name. Thank you for the wine nonetheless.”
With that the servant raised his head and muttered, “Willem, m’lord.”
“Thank you, Willem,” Allystaire said as he raised the cup and inhaled deeply. “Though you need not call me m’lord. My name is Allystaire.” He only then became aware that small talk had stopped, and that the gathered nobility was staring at his interaction with the servant.
“If you’re done scaring my servants, Stillbright,” Hamadrian said, “try the wine. It is my Birth Vintage,” he said. “A tradition we have here: a section of that year’s harvest set aside, laid down in good white oak, and only tapped when the Baron it was laid down for jolly well says so. Most of it has long since been spent: my weddings, the births of children, their weddings, the birth of their children. And too many funerals,” he added, his face falling, eyes lingering on his own cup. “In hopes, I had the last barrel breached when we set out for this congress.”
Hamadrian took the merest sip of his own, closing his eyes and clearly savoring it. Allystaire mimicked him, taking as small a taste as he could manage.
It was all he could do then to stop from gulping the entire cup. It tasted of earth and sun, of fruit and clear air and other things he hadn’t the words to describe.
“This,” he murmured, after he swallowed, “is a miracle, Hamadrian.”
“Thank you, Sir Stillbright,” the Baron replied, beaming. “I am proud of it.”
“Did you tend the vines? Harvest the fruit? Crush it? Build a barrel for it? Turn it, care for it, bottle it? It is to the men and women who did that that my compliments are owed,” Allystaire quickly added. He could feel Idgen Marte seething behind him, and Torvul didn’t bother to suppress a deep, rumbling chortle.
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