“What horror have you wrought?” The trim and compact man seemed to be letting a lifetime of anger out at once, his cheeks turning a mottled red and white. “What foul magic is this? You were always a murderer, but now a sorcerer!”
“Calm yourself, Baron Telmawr.” Landen had quickly stepped to Telmawr’s side, her voice cool, manner easy. “Sir Stillbright is no sorcerer; neither is the power you just witnessed wielded by one.”
“Am I murderer because I killed your father in battle, Byronn?” Allystaire spread his hands. “If so, then everyone here is a murderer. I will be the first to admit that my hands are stained a deep red. That is why we are gathered here.”
“Is it? Or is it so your pet demon can demand that we all fall in line?” Unseldt Harlach had slipped his axe halfway back along his hip, but one huge hand still wrapped around the head.
“Demons don’t exist,” Torvul put in brightly between sips from the jug of wine he’d brought along. “They’re a story that sorcerers and warlocks and the like tell to make themselves seem more mysterious. Spirits, now, those’re real, but to be inhabited with them a place has got to be good and old or had a lot of magic expended upon it.” He assumed the tone of a lecturer until he turned to meet Allystaire’s hard stare, to which he shrugged. The dwarf went back to his wine, waving away the pointed stares of the Baronial retinues.
“Your spirit, then!” Telmawr was undaunted.
Torvul swallowed hastily, “You heard the words, but did you understand them?”
“What you have seen is no spirit, nor demon nor sorcerer.” Allystaire put the sharp tone of command into his voice. “Baroness Delondeur and the Archioness Cerisia can attest to that fact. He is what he said he was: the Will of the Mother, as I am Her Arm.”
“Allystaire speaks truly, as always,” Cerisia said. “The Will of the Mother is a most powerful being, as we have all seen.”
“I have seen the work of sorcerers, and that evil is not in him,” Landen put in. “In his madness my father sought out their hire, and spent vast sums of treasure to bring first one, and then two more of their vile brotherhood to our shores. They would not boast of being able to tear down a mountain; if they could do so, they would, even to kill just one man, if they wanted him dead. If the Will were a sorcerer, he would kill all the men in that camp, from ambush, without warning, and then turn their bodies into shambling horrors with which to attack us. I know,” she added, the force in her voice growing with every word. “When you have seen what they do, have seen the twisted shadows of men that they become, you will never mistake it.”
Landen paused for breath and turned, involuntarily it seemed, towards Allystaire, who nodded very slightly in return. Byronn opened his mouth, raising a hand with one finger extended, till he was cut off.
“Have done, Telmawr,” Hamadrian called out. “We all want the same thing here, and this Will of the Mother has given us the means to achieve it. I say we wait here for young Oyrwyn to arrive.”
Pressing his lips into a thin line, Telmawr stepped away from Allystaire, lowering his clenched hands to his sides.
“And what if he comes down in strength?” Harlach was not as easily cowed, trying to warily eye Allystaire and Hamadrian simultaneously. “Do we stand here and be slaughtered?”
“Send for your guards if you feel you need them,” Hamadrian replied, “but keep them at a distance.”
He’s coming. Two men with him. His banner is drawn. Even Allystaire hadn’t noticed the moment Idgen Marte had slipped away, taking advantage of the gawping crowd’s fascination with Gideon’s show, but he knew she lingered near the base of the pass, having traveled there from shadow to shadow.
“You will not need them,” Allystaire said, raising a hand to point.
As though summoned by yet more magic, three figures on horseback, too distant to see in detail, suddenly came into view at the start of the descent from the mountains.
“Back to the table, then,” Hamadrian called out, his voice a shadow of what it had been but a few minutes earlier. “We should not await him standing in a field.”
CHAPTER 40
Baron Oyrwyn
Whatever he says or does, Allystaire thought, do not let it goad you. Promise me that neither of you will do anything to frighten or provoke him.
He shared this with Idgen Marte and Torvul. Behind him, the latter drank the last drops of his wine with a faint chuckle, while he could feel the former growing closer by the second.
We’ve got him good and cowed, Idgen Marte thought. Why waste the opportunity?
Because he will be be proud, and looking to save face in light of what happened. And because of all the Barons here, he is most uniquely positioned to ruin what we are attempting to do. He has the most tested,veteran troops, and the best places from which to strike. He will not hold to his father’s alliance with Baron Innadan for his father’s sake alone, and he will see any other Baron’s weakness as his opportunity.
How do you know that about his alliance with Innadan?
Allystaire didn’t have time to respond to Idgen Marte’s thought, for, as the trio of riders approached, Hamadrian turned to him, his face taut. “Are you and Gilrayan going to be civil?”
“I am not going to kill him, if that is what you mean,” Allystaire replied.
“Maybe you should’ve,” the old man offered, causing a general murmur around the cluster of nobles.
“I’ve no love lost for you, but Hamadrian’s right,” Unseldt growled. “You’d have been a more fitting son to Gerard Oyrwyn. He had the one bastard,” he added, rolling his great shoulders in a shrug. “Sure you weren’t one yourself? You act enough like him.”
“Positive,” Allystaire said, frowning. “My lord Harlach, a year ago I would have considered that the greatest compliment anyone ever paid me.”
“Enough.” Irritation was thick in Landen’s voice. “You all natter on like fishwives and children on mending day. This is not a lark. My people have died this spring. More will, as this Islandman army swells in the north. We should be moving with haste, not looking fondly back on our squiring days.”
Heads turned to Landen; eyebrows raised. Harlach’s mouth twisted in a dismissive grimace. “I’ve heard enough out of you, lass. Young rulers need to sit, listen, and learn.”
“She is right!” Hamadrian raised his voice to a shout, and it brought the company to a stunned silence. The effort almost immediately cost him, though, as he was suddenly wracked with coughing. Arontis and Cerisia were at his side immediately. Allystaire was half a step away when Hamadrian recovered, raising a hand and speaking in a rasp. “Landen is right, and her urgency shames us all. This congress must end with us moving, in concert, to confront this Braechsworn menace. Anything less is a failure.”
He turned to Allystaire then, his face grave, cheeks withdrawn, and good eye dimmed. He looked old once more, much of the vigor the Mother’s Healing had given him seeming to recede into the creases of his face, into the sag of his shoulder.
“Tonight, regardless of the outcome of this congress, I will send word to the Vineyards to gather the Thornriders and such knights as can be roused immediately to lead them. And then, Allystaire Stillbright, I will turn them over to your command until you have the head of the man who’d bring the Islandmen and the Dragon Scales down upon us. And if any of the rest of you,” he rasped, waving a hand to indicate the gathered Barons, “have an ounce of sense, you’ll do the same Cold-damned thing.”
Allystaire nodded his thanks and came forward to clasp Hamadrian by the forearm. When he did, he slipped his left hand on the outside of the older man’s hand.
Mother, he thought, the world needs this man for a few days at the least. Please let him live to see his moment of triumph in peace. Please help him find the strength.
He felt a jolt travel from his hand to Hamadrian’s, saw a shiver travel up the older man’s body,
heard a stale breath wheeze softly from ruined lungs. And then the Baron Innadan stood tall once again, his eye clearing, and Allystaire stepped away as softly and unobtrusively as he could manage.
He’s not goin’ t’last long, is he? Idgen Marte’s thought-voice was resigned, a bit sad.
As long as the Mother gives me the strength to prop him up, Allystaire replied. He turned his back on the group of Barons and retreated a few steps away as they murmured among each other in reaction to Hamadrian’s pronouncement. Landen pulled away from them and sidled up to him.
“Allystaire,” she said, “you know you have my seal on any peace. And you know you have any men I can raise. Arming them may be a problem.”
“Why?”
Landen shook her head, cut his eyes towards the group of Barons behind them, and muttered, “The armory in the Dunes was looted. Emptied of all but the most inferior stuff.”
“By whom? How?”
“Under the seal of Lord Lamaliere, though he swears, not by himself. And considering he spent the winter holed up in Tide’s Watch, I fail to see how—”
“Evolyn.” Allystaire fair spat the word, grimacing. “His daughter, the Lady Lamaliere. The Marynth Evolyn Lamaliere,” he added, and understanding swept Landen’s face.
“My own Barony’s arms turned against us,” she fumed, her hands clenching into fists. “I will—”
“We haven’t the time to go plotting our revenges, no matter how well deserved or exquisite,” Torvul muttered, “not to mention how unseemly it is t’speak of such things in the light of day. But,” he added, raising a long finger and pointing, “best tend to the arrival of your former liege lord, Ally.”
Allystaire felt something—not fear, but a mix of anxiety and regret—spread through his limbs as he turned to face the Baron Oywryn.
Gilrayan looked enough like his father to call Gerard Oyrwyn to mind, Allystaire reflected. And to suffer by the comparison. He wore a silver circlet like the one Allystaire had first seen on the Old Baron some thirty years before, but gem studded and overwrought and too large upon his brow. He wore richly enameled black scale armor and a grey silk surcoat with the Oyrwyn mountain outlined in silver thread. He had his father’s straight bearing and intense eyes over sharp cheeks, but his hair was closer to blond than the plain brown his father’s had been, and he hadn’t begun to lose it yet. The young Baron Oyrwyn held his head high and proudly, viewing the table and the seated Barons with cool indifference.
You’d never know he didn’t come fashionably late and of his own free will. Idgen Marte shared her thought with him, and he only just stopped himself from nodding agreement.
A stiff back and a flat face. He is not entirely unlike his father.
Behind him walked one knight Allystaire didn’t recognize, and another whose appearance made his jaw and fists clench. Standing a full head taller than any other man there, than any man Allystaire had ever seen, Joeglan Naswyn was unmistakable in any crowd. He moved with a kind of moderate stateliness, never hurrying, never slow, and his long frame belied a strength Allystaire knew could be frightening.
He found himself staring hard at the Lord of the Horned Towers, heard his gauntlets creak as his fists clenched.
Allystaire! Idgen Marte’s voice was a mental whipcrack. You can’t afford to start a brawl here. And why?
Her question was cut off as all attention was suddenly drawn to Gilrayan, who raised his hands and spoke.
“Honored Lords and Ladies,” he said, “do accept my sincerest apologies for the lateness of Barony Oyrwyn’s arrival to these august proceedings. Winter lingers in the mountains,” he added.
“We all know of winter, especially in Harlach. Didn’t stop me,” Unseldt growled.
Gilrayan offered him a smile that spoke of understanding amongst comrades. “The deepest winter knows better than to impede the way of the Great White Bear, as do we all,” he said.
Allystaire had to work to breathe, to unclench his jaw, to not press his teeth through the skin of his lips. Gilrayan stood there with his chin up, his eyes bright, hands settled on his empty swordbelt, radiating good cheer and bonhomie. The cheek of it, he thought, the impudence. To lob friendly words at people he meant to take hostage or kill not two turns ago.
Meanwhile Baron Oyrwyn was moving slowly around the table, shaking hands. He tried to take Loaisa’s hand as if he meant to kiss it, but was quick enough on his feet to simply take her forearm in his and give her the warrior’s clasp she demanded.
Seething, Allystaire was not sure how long he could watch, as Gilrayan was careful to ignore him. He caught, from the corner of his eye, Joeglan Naswyn eyeing him, which he tried to ignore.
Stones, all you people ignorin’ each other, Torvul thought. It’s like the boys and the girls at their first barn dance, afraid to look at one another.
Gilrayan had by then clasped hands with Ruprecht, Landen, Loaisa, and tension was growing as he stood before Unseldt Harlach. The Bear had thrown himself out of his seat, and walked halfway around the table to loom ominously over the younger man, with his hand too close to his axe for anyone’s comfort.
“Do not put your hand to that weapon, Unseldt.” Hamadrian’s voice was a dry rasp, but it cut through the cords of tension that were starting to wrap around everyone at the table, fixing them in fearful stillness. “You agreed to come unarmed to this table. You are impugning your own honor and endangering our lives with your pettiness.”
Alone among the Barons, Harlach and Oyrwyn did not turn to face him. Hamadrian planted his gnarled hands upon the table’s edge and pushed himself to his feet. He gathered his breath, only for his words to crumble in the face of a sudden ragged cough.
Arontis was at his father’s side, helping him to sit before anyone else could move. Turning a taut jaw and barely concealed anger towards the table, he yelled with all the force his father could not.
“Baron Harlach, you are a guest at my father’s Congress, and on his land, under the auspices of his hospitality and protection. You have both chosen to flaunt all rules of decency and respect. That ends this instant. You will accord my father the respect he deserves due to his seniority, his age, and the seriousness of the task ahead of us, or I will expel you from this Congress and allow Sir Stillbright to do what he will in regards to you. Baron Oyrwyn, you are welcome here if you come in good faith, but lurking in the mountains with hundreds of men does not speak well of your intentions, and I would have them clarified instantly.”
Unseldt was first to respond. “Whelp, I’ll not listen to your yelping!”
“No one is impressed with your antics, Unseldt.” Loaisa Damarind’s voice was acid, etching her words sharply into the air. “If you keep it up, in turn you will threaten everyone here, and yet you’ve not won a battle since I took my seat. Enough. Be silent and take this last chance to learn from those who know more of statecraft and war than you.”
Unseldt was too stunned to respond, but the weight of staring disapproval forced him sullenly into his seat.
Gilrayan had been given the time to find his feet, though. “I did not have much choice but to come here, Lord Innadan. In fact, I would say it seems that I was right to fear for my safety and to bring as many knights and men as I did, given the welcome I was met with. How do I know that you’ll not simply let him,” with this, he jutted his chin towards Allystaire, “unleash his pet demon or sorcerer upon me now that I am alone and unarmed.”
“I will not presume to speak for Sir Stillbright, but I do believe he has only the best interests of the people of the Baronies in his thoughts,” Arontis said, turning to Allystaire as he spoke.
With a deep breath, the paladin took a half-step forward. “You have nothing to fear from me, Baron Oyrwyn, or from the Will of the Mother, so long as you do not seek to break the peace of this place.”
“Stillbright, is it? Sir? And where do you get this title, giv
en the published Writs of Exile and Divestiture?” Gilrayan said. “Did you simply bestow it upon yourself?”
“No,” Allystaire said, “but discussion of what titles I bear is not relevant.”
“I think that it is,” Gilrayan insisted. “Only those with true claim to nobility, or at least to knighthood, have the authority to sit upon a Congress such as this.”
“What you know of knighthood, Baron Oyrwyn,” Allystaire said, “could not fill a thimble.”
“Am I to be threatened and abused by a coward I exiled?”
Allystaire lowered his eyes and clenched his fists. “Enough. Even I am joining in this endless nattering. We are here for a purpose, and that is to arrange a peace so that we can meet the threat massing in fallen Vyndamere.”
“And what proof is there of that?” Gilrayan looked around the table as he spoke, and to Allystaire’s dismay, found Harlach, Machoryn, and Telmawr nodding their approval.
“Proof?” Torvul’s voice creaked with unaccustomed disuse. “Why, I think it’s arriving now.”
Allystaire turned towards the tramp of feet, and found Norbert approaching, leading the three Braechsworn prisoners, their hands and feet and necks all bound together. Onundr and Gauk seemed barely able to stand, their limbs slack and atrophied, their once fearsome faces fallen and shapeless. Between them, Arvid, who would once have been dwarfed by the two former Dragon Scales, looked brawny and threatening in comparison.
Gasps scattered up and down the table like small gusts of wind as Allystaire seized the rope and hauled them close, pushing them to the ground. Arvid knelt; the other two collapsed in a heap.
Allystaire seized the back of Arvid’s neck with the bare skin of his left palm. “Tell them who you are.”
“Arvid,” he spat. He struggled against the paladin’s grasp, more, Allystaire thought, for the form of the thing than any real hope of escape.
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