by Ellyn, Court
He snorted laughter. “By no means. I just … want it all to go away. I think it’s about to. Care to join me, Duchess?”
“I’ll forego the poppy wine, thanks,” she said, filling the second armchair.
A knock announced the arrival of the butler with more wine. He hobbled into the suite, noticed Rhoslyn and bowed stiffly at the hips. She whispered, “He really doesn’t need it, Ausen, but thank you. Leave it and go.” She poured a little for herself into the goblet on the tray and breathed in the aromas of leather and berries and warm Doreli nights. “Before you’re completely insensible, Kelyn, I just wanted to thank you. You saved my life today. I owe you—”
“Nothing. Don’t insult me.” He took a long swig from the bottle and Rhoslyn sipped from her goblet, trying not to recall the cold of the sea, the undeniable power of the surge.
Kelyn set the memory to flight with a chuckle. “A pair of maids walked by earlier, arguing. Some of your household seems to think you jumped in.”
“Oh, no,” she groaned. “I’m not starting things off too well, am I?”
Kelyn swept a hand. “You’ll do jus’ fine.”
“And will you, Lord Ilswythe?”
He glowered. “Better than War Commander. Did I tell you Rhorek offered me the position? How’s that for responsibility at our age, Duchess? All those lives depending on my orders. No thanks.”
“Your father will be hard to replace,” she said softly.
“No one can replace him.” He stared into the flames deep in the hearth, looking more like Kieryn when he brooded in silence. “I wasn’t with him when he died. He didn’t want me to see. Yet I do see it. In my head. I see him die again and again. Sometimes he smiles just before. Sometimes not. I should’ve been there. I should’ve seen it, then maybe my mind would rest.”
“No,” Rhoslyn said, “your father knew best. I saw, and I’d have given anything not to have seen. Not to have known how…. But we won’t go back to that, or I may prove the maids right.”
Kelyn wagged a finger at her. “I’m not jumping in after you again. Doctor said no swimming for me.”
Rhoslyn laughed, and it felt better than wine, but foreign.
Head bobbing, he muttered, “Stupid. ‘Should haves’.”
Rhoslyn watched him drift off at last, and with tears burning her exhausted eyes, she thought, Everyone is leaving. The room was big, and she felt very small and very much alone in it. All gone. My mother, Father, Zellel, Kieryn. In a couple of weeks, Kelyn would be hale enough to leave, too.
She rose and rescued the bottle slipping from his grasp. They looked so much alike, Kieryn and his brother, that Rhoslyn’s breath caught in her throat. But Kieryn wasn’t here.
She knelt beside the armchair and touched Kelyn’s face.
~~~~
That night Kelyn dreamt of Lissah. Dark, demanding eyes. Golden hair falling around him. Perfumed skin, wine and night blossoms. Sighs. Ah, such sighs. And tears. Seas of delight, those tears against his cheek, in his mouth. He was drowning in a golden sea; he couldn’t breathe. Lissah’s face changed. It was someone he didn’t know, and the dream turned into a dark, vague nightmare. Kieryn was yelling at him and his mother was crying. They had taken his title from him and kicked him out of Ilswythe. Bang on the gate as he might, they wouldn’t let him in.
He woke feeling just as depressed as he had the day before. The early sun stabbed his eyes, and he was sure someone had kicked him in the head. He groaned a bitter curse and tried to sit up. The rug beneath him moved in nauseating patterns. Why was he on the floor? He recalled the poppy wine and watching the hypnotic flames in the hearth. Ah, yes, he must’ve passed out and fallen out of the chair. He looked for a bottle. Only way to cure a headache of this magnitude was to drink a little more.
He didn’t find a bottle, but he found a rose-colored dress bundled up under the armchair, carelessly, as if it had been kicked and forgotten. He pulled it out and stared at it, a terrible confusion making the headache pound more painfully at his temples, even at the base of his throat.
His head spinning, he got dressed, then hurried across the corridor to Rhoslyn’s rooms. Voices of guests and servants echoed from somewhere along the wing. The dress was rolled up as tight and as small as he could make it; he hid it behind his back while he waited for someone to answer his knocking. If a handmaid or—Goddess forbid—Lady Halayn answered, he would ask if Rhoslyn was doing better today and try again later.
He was grateful when Rhoslyn herself opened the door. She wore a heavy sleeping robe and her honey-colored hair was braided over one shoulder. When she saw who stood in the vestibule, she became as flighty as a filly, glancing over her shoulder, unable to look him in the face.
Kelyn raised the rolled-up dress and whispered, “What the hell?”
She gasped and snatched it from him. “Don’t tell anyone. I … I’m sorry.”
“Don’t tell anyone what?”
She looked at him in puzzlement, started to speak, but her handmaid called from somewhere in the suite, “Your Grace, your tea …”
Rhoslyn shoved Kelyn into the corridor and shut the door in his face.
~~~~
49
Kieryn strolled the bailey with the head steward. The day was too fair to be shut up in the study. There wouldn’t be many days like this left before winter. Master Yorin flipped through his ledger in the cool sunshine, reading out the tallies of Ilswythe’s stores.
“So not counting the amount of food we’ll send south to our soldiers,” Kieryn asked, “do we have enough to feed the extra mouths?” Those few villagers who had lost the crop in their portion of the fields now relied on their lords to provide for them through the winter.
Yorin nodded ponderously, while reviewing his scratches on the page. “We should. Of course, if you hadn’t arrived to warn us, there would be no villagers left to feed. We’re all beholden to you, m’ lord.”
Kieryn didn’t expect sentimentality from this austere man. His job required strict discipline, the kind Kieryn couldn’t seem to master, and so Yorin had intimidated him all these years, almost as badly as Father had. To hear words of approval from him seemed to confirm the encouragement Kieryn had received from his mother. Before he could reply to Yorin’s praise, a crowd of children—some from the village, some belonging to members of the household—thundered toward him. One was Yorin’s own daughter. She was ten or eleven and led the charge. “Show us again, Your Lordship, please,” she cried.
“You should be about your sums, Yris,” said Yorin.
“Oh, please … ?” she persisted.
The others hopped up and down like little birds, begging, “Please, please.”
Delighted, Kieryn said, “Just once more.” He measured the angle of the westering sun, then swept his arm. A band of color spread over the eastern towers. The children leapt and clapped. “Now, what did I call it before?” he asked them.
“Bath in the shade,” a little boy piped.
Kieryn laughed. “Not quite.”
“Bathda’sha,” Yris corrected.
“Very good,” he lauded, and she twisted side to side, embarrassed at his praise. “Now, what does it mean?”
Yris stopped twisting and chewed a fingernail in thought.
Another girl answered, “Rain’s light?”
“Good. Now go watch it fade.”
They hurried away to the east wall with clumsy bows and curtsies.
Yorin chuckled. “You spoil them, m’ lord.”
“No. They spoil me.” He couldn’t afford the mistake of expecting a child’s kind of adoration beyond these walls. Back to business. What would Kelyn say to his brother when he found him taking care of his responsibilities for him? “Ah, you’ve done such a good job that you can manage these tasks from now on.” Likely just that, the ogre spawn.
Captain Maegeth shouted something from the front gatehouse; a sentry in a nearer tower repeated the message for Kieryn, “A courier, m’ lord.”
The
rider charged into the courtyard. His uniform, cerulean with the black falcon, was stained with mud and blood. The letter he offered was addressed to Lady Ilswythe. Kieryn recognized the seal of King Bano’en in the blue wax and ran to the solar where his mother tended the herbs she had brought inside for winter. She wiped the loam from her fingers and snatched the letter, only to stare at it for a moment. Was the news good or bad?
Alovi broke the seal, glanced at the handwriting, and said, “It’s from Al.” She read aloud:
Dear Sister~
We have pushed the Fierans from Bramoran!
If you have not yet heard, our uncle declared war on the fop king Shadryk at last and sent me at the head of our land army. With the few of Rhorek’s soldiers able to accompany us, we swept down upon the Fierans where they lay encamped in the Green. During their own attack upon Bramoran, they and their Zhiani mercenaries had burned the outer gate and in their overconfidence, failed to shore it up properly. In the middle of the night, our archers climbed to the ramparts on the tallest ladders you have ever seen, and while they showered the enemy with arrows, our infantry stormed the gatehouses. For a day and a night the Fierans tried to dislodge us and failed. When they drew back toward the inner gate, our cavalry swept in and decimated them. Those we did not slay we took prisoner, the Warlord himself among them. Glorious!
On a sadder note, Lunelion has not fared well. Rumor has it that her towers spew black smoke, and her people are slaughtered like swine. However, we have received word that His Majesty’s aunt, Princess Mazel, fled safely to Locmar with as many of her people as she could gather. It seems the Fierans sent out their allies with their fire contraptions to burn every settlement in Aralorr. So I pray this letter of victory finds Ilswythe safe and all her folk well.
Please, dear sister, keep a close eye on the horizon and watch for parties of men wearing lizard skin and stolen armor, for though the majority of the enemy are now in our care, some of these burning parties remain unaccounted for, and are likely to continue burning and pillaging.
Now to personal matters. I heard of Kelyn’s injuries and hope he is recovering. I expect your sons are a comfort to you, dear sister, and I will come to you soon and offer my condolences and my shoulder, should you need it.
~With all my love and devotion,
Your brother,
Allaran
Alovi lowered the parchment, sank onto the bench among her fragrant herbs, and muttered, “We are not lost. Praise be to Ana, we are not lost.”
~~~~
That night, Alovi found Kieryn in the Great Hall. He’d lit no candle, but the light of the moons fractured through the stained-glass windows and dimly illumined the cavernous room. Alovi stood in a side entrance and watched him in silence. He made a slow turn of the dais, pausing briefly behind the high-backed chair his father would no longer occupy. Descending, he stood in the very place where he’d struck down Johrn the assassin. Lifting a hand, the one he’d burned only months ago, he whispered, “Eshel.” A tiny ball of golden flame appeared over his palm.
So beautiful, Alovi thought. So harmless. Yet what could he do with that one tiny flame? Scorch the world.
The gold flame went out, and he crossed the Hall to the massive doors at the main entrance. Alovi thought he might continue on to his rooms, but he stopped and gazed up at the silver harp hanging high on the wall.
As if he had known all this while that she’d been watching him, he said, “Her name was Amanthia.” He turned to her, inviting her to join him.
Smiling an apology for spying, she took hold of his arm to absorb some of his warmth. The Hall was too big to heat, and when they spoke, their words made little gray clouds in the colored moonlight. “She was my many-great Elaran grandmother,” he added. “Father’s, too.”
“So now we know,” Alovi said, nodding. “I had hoped the Blood came from me, to spare your father his pride. But,” she paused, her throat tightening, “but when I went to him at Nathrachan on the fey horse you sent, I could see a change in him. I could hear it in his voice when he spoke of you. He’d reconciled himself to this very possibility, and I don’t think he hated it anymore. It was what it was, and you were the beloved son he had hurt.”
Frowning, Kieryn gazed into the shadows that pooled around their feet. “I suppose I must believe you, since Kelyn says the same thing. Either way, there are too many regrets.”
Alovi pressed her brow to his shoulder, and finally found it best to change the subject. “When are you going back to Windhaven?”
He shrugged, torn. “I don’t want to leave with those Zhianese lurking around.”
“We’ve seen them, we know what to look for, and we’ll be on our guard. As long as Allaran is between the Avidan and the Bryna, we’ll be safe enough. Besides, I know you’re keeping an eye on us, avedra.” She glanced at the harp. “You know, when I first came here as a bride, I wanted to redecorate to suit my own tastes, but your father forbade me to take down that tarnished old thing. He said, ‘That harp is a symbol of Ilswythe’s strength.’ But I think her strength lies in her people, not in her trophies. Take it. Take it back to them. As a gesture of peace between our house and theirs.”
~~~~
The prisoners were led from Bramoran’s gatehouse in single file, their wrists and feet shackled. Colors, armor, and swords had been confiscated; they hobbled toward the wagons in their underclothes. The prince of the mercenaries alone was spared this humiliation; his pretty, gold-enameled armor and wolf-skin cloak were splashed with the blood of his guard. The fierce outlanders in their serpent-faced helms had died to a man trying to protect him. After days in the dungeon, dark stubble had grown on his head and chin. He was determined to tell every listening ear between the Drakhan Mountains and the Great Fire Sea about the effrontery done him. “This is a disgrace!” he shouted. “Osaya’s son in chains? Sons of whores, all of you, sorry bastards!”
“Perhaps Osaya’s son should’ve stayed home,” said Captain Jareg.
“Where are our horses, prince?” demanded another Falcon.
The prince snorted. “Your nags are a gift for my mother. They will plow Osaya’s fields.”
“Get in the cart, Your Highness,” said Jareg levelly.
“You do not command me, red little runt.”
Jareg flinched a coppery eyebrow, then grabbed the prince by the belt and by the scruff and tossed him into the nearest wagon.
“You will burn for this!” the prince shrieked, righting himself as best he could without use of his hands. “Burn, all of you, mother-loving whoresons!”
Watching these men, happy and hopeful in the prospect of returning home, pained Leshan. He wanted these men to hurt, to bleed, to burn for what they had done. Tírandon was only their first offense. The prisoners whom the Fierans had secured—mostly men from Helwende’s army, others from among Bramoran’s defenders—had been divided into two groups. One half they had carted south, across the Bryna to be held at Athmar for ransom. The other half they had strung up and hanged from Bramoran’s walls.
King Rhorek had ordered them cut down and burned first thing, but ravens still circled the towers, hoping.
The five-hundred-odd Fieran prisoners were to be offered in trade for the other half of Helwende’s men. The captured Zhianese were to be held indefinitely. Still, Leshan wasn’t the only one who disagreed with Rhorek’s decision. Beside him, Morach of Longmead Manor spat a wad at the feet of a passing Fieran. “We ought to line ‘em up along the Bryna, hang ‘em high on poles for all Fierans to see. That’d give ‘em pause.” Morach had arrived from Nathrachan with a handful of dwarven infantry in time for the assault. They had brought word that Lunélion burned, just as Tírandon had.
The Warlord himself emerged from the dungeon in stained gray woolens. The Aralorris and Leanians supervising the transfer hissed and jeered. He spat at the gathering in general and hobbled past King Rhorek without so much as a glance, but he paused before Lord Lander and glared at the moonstone imp peeking over his shoul
der. In a gesture of reparation, Rhorek had bestowed on Lander the greatsword Contention.
“I’m coming back for that,” Goryth said.
Lander grinned as if he were still that cocky youth with the key to the prisoner’s cell. “Do. And I’ll gut you with it.”
Talk, all talk, Leshan thought and muttered, “Not if I gut him first.” He dived on the Warlord, flung him to the ground and buried the toe of his boot in the man’s ribs.
“No, lad!” Morach shouted, dragging Leshan back in arms as mighty as a bear’s.
“Son!” cried Lander in warning, and Goryth picking himself out of the dust, heard.
When he had breath enough, he asked, “You … are Lander’s son?” His eyes flicked between them, and he grinned. “You look more like your mother.”
Leshan fought Morach’s grip and kicked at Goryth in vain. A pair of Falcons were ordered to flank the Warlord. Falcons protecting that scum? Ah, it was too much.
Goryth barked laughter. The Falcons led him to the wagon; he climbed in and shoved his men aside so he had plenty of room for himself. Lander followed, glowering, fists on hips, moonstone gleaming pale.
“Is it got in full, Lander?” the Warlord asked, referring to the little note he’d left in Tírandon’s dungeon. “I’m not sure, myself. Watch your back. For as long as I live, watch your back.”
“And you watch yours,” Leshan called.
Goryth’s furry eyebrows jumped in amused disdain. “Shaping the enemies of the future. Job well done, I’d say.”
“Your Majesty,” Lander said, “shall we gag this prisoner? He speaks naught but empty spite.”
Rhorek nodded, then pointed at the squirming, raving prince. “That one, too, or he’ll annoy the drivers.” When Goryth and Saj’nal were silenced behind wads of wool, Rhorek told the drivers and the dozen knights escorting them, “Take them to Whitewood and hold them there until we receive our ransom. If Shadryk declines, send the Warlord back to Brynduvh in a box. A small, messy one.”