Leiyatel's Embrace (Dica Series Book 1)

by Clive S. Johnson

  He returned to her gentle face before finally finding voice. “Thou art dressed already! Have I overslept?” She smiled, stood up before him and pirouetted, showing off a sumptuous satin and brocade gown, complete with an iridescent blue and silver mantle. He saw that her hair was tightly tied into knots and buns, a few curls hanging loose at her temples.

  Unfortunately, her Galgaverran boots did little to complement the outfit, being flat, ankle length and somewhat scuffed. She did, though, sport satin gloves, sheer to her slender arms, and about her neck ran a deep string of gems, an ornate arc of amethysts, emeralds and garnets. It was, though, her natural beauty that really took his breath away and made him mutely drink in the vision, until she enquired, “Well? Will I do?”

  The spell was broken, and he gasped as he drew back his escaping breath. “Thou dost look a pretty picture, mine dear, a sight to cheer an ancient man’s heart, but thou dost chasten mine own choice of apparel. It will, I know, fain compete. But thou wilt have to forgive mine haste, Penolith, for I am well behind. Damn my falling asleep! I had planned on making mine self ready at leisure, but now I shall have to rush and no doubt spoil the effect.”

  He chuckled as he pushed himself upright, stretched, and in so doing, let out a series of cracks from his joints. He was then off to his room, leaving her alone in the salon with the sun threatening to break free of the horizon.

  It wasn’t long before Pettar joined her, uncomfortably crammed into his doublet and hose, a too-short cloak draped self-consciously across his broad shoulders. At his hip hung a ceremonial sword in a gem encrusted scabbard, swinging from a wide leather belt. The sword was so long, Penolith was convinced it would trip him at some point.

  Before she could think to warn him, Drax swept dashingly in. He’d chosen a black dolman jacket that hung rakishly over a crimson jerkin, a cream blouson beneath tightly tucked into black trousers. Unfortunately, he too suffered the inelegance of shapeless Galgaverran boots.

  Thus the costume parade continued as more of their party drifted uncomfortably into the salon. When the sun finally broke a sliver of gold above the Strawbac Hills, it discovered a motley assortment of sartorial periods and styles all milling about.

  When Nephril did finally join them for breakfast, he sported a simple frock coat tied with an ornate silver-studded, leather belt from which hung a short rapier. Beneath his coat he wore a loose shirt tucked into pantaloons, complete with a codpiece. Somehow he’d found a fine pair of brogues, so was the only one not in either sandals or boots. The effect was still unmatched, but their polish did at least outshine the rest.

  Penolith couldn’t help but be impressed, found him far more gallant and noble than she’d ever thought possible. It actually gave his face an attractive grace. The trouble was, there was little time left for compliments as half an hour had already passed since the sun had risen.

  Their breakfast was therefore hurried, a few even taking some with them when they finally left the manse. They descended the long flight of ceremonial steps that ran from the terrace straight down onto Eastern Street, to where Storbanther’s ragtag escort was already assembled. They presented a surprisingly martial stand, all things considered, ordered there by equal ranks and at studied attention.

  When Penolith saw Stor’ patiently waiting at the head of them, she wondered how their meeting would go. She still felt a sting of betrayal despite Nephril’s words, and knew she’d have to guard against it colouring her voice. Until then she was going to enjoy the day, following Nephril’s sound advice.

  Whether it was that thought or not, it struck her how well their Galgaverran priests mustered as pretend soldiers. She hoped, though, they’d not be called upon in anger, certainly not against Lord Leadernac’s obviously seasoned men.

  With their meeting now so imminent, she began to wonder about the Nouwelm commander, intrigued as to his nature and impatient to judge him in the flesh. What kind of man would have such a belief in legend that it could drive him across the Gray Mountains to an uncertain destiny?

  Suddenly, they were on Eastern Street and nearing Storbanther who snapped to attention, as though he’d always been through and through the military man. Nephril was the first to hail him. “Good day, Storbanther, and how art thou faring?”

  Storbanther’s face flushed with seemingly genuine happiness at seeing Penolith, completely ignoring Nephril. “Ay up, mi Lady Penolith, a fine welcome to thee. Thee’s being here were a reet surprise tha knows, but it’s warmed me ‘eart no end.” It was far from what she’d expected, its warmth fair taking the wind from her sails, but soon drawing her into easy conversation, as though nothing at all had happened.

  Nephril was by then arranging their group in a way that seemed to him more appropriate for a welcoming party. Throughout, he kept nervously glancing back at the closed gates, as they all did, especially when Storbanther announced the time for their opening was nearly upon them.

  The thick, grey cloud seemed to take some heed itself and started to become tattered and thin, allowing through more of the dawn sunlight. A warm breeze now wafted amongst them, rippling the fall and fold of garb. Behind them, the Galgaverran guard made the only real noise as they nervously shuffled and whispered, trying to look disciplined and serious.

  In fact, for a body of men who couldn’t admit to one ounce of proper military knowledge, they were making an impressive stab at it, improved somewhat by Sentinar Drax. He’d constantly passed between them, appraising and adjusting with a guardsman’s eye.

  They were smoothing errant seams and necklines, and adjusting recalcitrant scabbards or fidgeting themselves comfortable, when they heard a loud creaking noise come from the gates as they began to open. At first they moved extremely slowly and haltingly but soon became smoother, the creaking eventually giving way to a deep rumble of rope upon pulley. Falmeard watched the gap imperceptibly grow wider, very slowly revealing the two close-rising towers beyond. There was, though, a vague hint of something amassed immediately before the gates.

  It would be some while yet before those gates would crash against their wall-stays on the gatehouse towers, signalling the Nouwelm army to move forward. That thought actually raised the hairs on the back of Falmeard’s neck and left his throat dry. He was just straining his eyes to see the Nouwelm vanguard when he heard an odd noise behind and absently turned to look.

  Down the pavement beside their escort, a lone Galgaverran priest came running full pelt towards them. His face was red, his cheeks puffed out and his robes and sandaled feet extremely dusty. The thing that struck Falmeard most was how distraught he looked. Drax had noticed Falmeard’s interest and he too turned to look back. Instead of staring, though, he soon dashed to meet the priest.

  Before his feet could stir, Falmeard’s voice slipped free. “What have we got here then?” which brought them all to turn around in time to see Drax catch the exhausted priest. Falmeard was the next to reach him, and helped Drax sit the priest on a low wall nearby as garbled words sprang from his wheezing throat.

  Nephril joined them but glanced back to see the gates now coming against the tower walls, and so quickly knelt to the priest. “Whatever hastens thee be plainly urgent, so take time enough for breath but not too much of it, our Nouwelm guests are about to march in.”

  The priest took a deep breath but only coughed. Another was enough. “A king’s army … coming from the west … on Eastern Street.” He then fell to more coughing. Naturally, they all stared west along the street but could see nothing. “About two hundred and … and marching fast.”

  “How know thee it be an army of the king?”

  “’Cos they carry the king’s banner at their head, my Lord.”

  Nephril swore, made his hands into fists and exclaimed, through gritted teeth, “Laixac! Damn that verminous Dican, damn his devious heart! I should have known. I should have kept him close.”

  Falmeard tried to calm him. “But then we’d have had the king in our hair all the time, Nephril. You did right s
ending him off, but it might not be his doing anyway.”

  Nephril knew it had to be Laixac, but time was too short. He gave the Eastern Gate another quick glance. “Damn! We must act quickly. Pettar? Thou wilt accompany me, but we must hurry.”

  He told Penolith and Storbanther, “The both of thee will hath command today. Penolith I know to have good sense and much of mine knowledge, and thee, Storbanther, know of thine and Leiyatel’s plan, so between thee all should be in safe hands. Whatever, get thee all back to the manse as soon as thee can.”

  They were about to leave when Penolith urged him to take some of their escort as protection. “Nay, Guardian, I fear it would only excite more tension and so detract from mine purpose.” With that, he and Pettar were swiftly gone.

  The Nouwelm army, now marching in through the gate, forced all other thoughts from Penolith’s mind. Her own company had only just managed to get themselves back in order when it came onto Eastern Street at a frightening pace. Her heart sank when she saw its uniform step, how precisely it moved, their heads held high and confident.

  They moved as one, like some giant monster, an unstoppable force. So little could be seen of them beneath their plumed salades and bronzed armour that they could all have been fashioned from the very same mould. She certainly couldn’t bring herself to compare them with her own shoddy but well-intentioned escort.

  The monster also had a mesmeric thunder, the regular crunch of its feet filling the street with ear-splitting echoes. At its head strode a tall figure in splendorous attire. Instead of a salade he wore a tricorne and his cape was shorter, not of green and across the face like his troop but blood red and slung over the shoulder. Close behind, elegant and seductive as he, his officers closely followed on. When they were some ten paces away, the whole army halted as one with deafening silence, leaving Leadernac leisurely striding forward.

  Storbanther moved out to meet him, his hand eagerly outthrust, which Leadernac firmly took. Penolith was just thinking their shake a touch flamboyant when her eyes fell on Lord Leadernac’s face and her heart leapt.

  He seemed familiar somehow, but try as she might she couldn’t place why. Oddly, she had some difficulty finding words when Storbanther soon came to introduce them. She was so distracted she actually missed it altogether and so Storbanther had to repeat, “My Lady Guardian?” She managed to drag her eyes from Lord Leadernac. “If I may introduce Lord and Commander Leadernac.”

  She regained some of her composure and quickly managed a smile before offering her own hand, but instead of taking it to shake, Lord Leadernac gently raised it to his lips. He pressed a light yet lingering kiss to the back of it before politely returning it, his silken voice softly drifting through the suddenly warm and fragrant air. “My Lady Penolith, Guardian of Galgaverre, it gives me great pleasure to find myself so fortunate as to make your acquaintance.”

  He turned briefly to Storbanther. “Although the Sentinar here has already explained how esteemed you are, he didn’t think to forewarn me of your dazzling beauty,” then he turned his deep blue eyes, with their penetrating gaze, back to her startled face and smiled, genially.

  “My … my Lord Leadernac, you are most welcome, yourself and your company, and I hope our meeting marks the first of many.” She swallowed and felt her face warmly flush.

  After their introduction, and as Storbanther was doing the same with the others, she was able to relax a little, but then wondered at the strange feelings he’d stirred in her. They reminded her of those she’d first felt with Nephril, but these now were somehow different. She remained distracted until introduced to Lord Leadernac’s First Sergeant, Breadgrinder, and then, with a rapidly dizzying collection of names, to all his captains.

  When it was all over, she happened to notice Drax move close to Storbanther. After a few discrete words, Drax exaggeratedly suggested, “Excuse the interruption, my Lords and Lady, but I’m mindful of our escorts and suggest they be dismissed at ease and seen to suitable quarters.”

  Penolith understood the real concern, remembering Nephril’s warning, as Storbanther promptly agreed. He then turned to Leadernac seeking his agreement. The two escorts where soon dismissed, in their disparate ways, Drax retaining a small guard to escort them to the manse.

  By the time Drax had arranged things, most of the party were already some way up the steps. He hurried to catch up, with as much dignity as he could. When he reached Falmeard at the rear and looked back, he was pleased to see the guard coming up in proper order. Somehow, though, they still didn’t quite make muster. ‘Oh well,’ he thought, ‘Lord Nephril said we’re moving into newer times, so you never know.’

  At the head of their group, Storbanther and Leadernac were in light conversation, Penolith behind, her mind definitely elsewhere. Behind her, Breadgrinder and one of the captains walked in silence whilst the remaining two brought up the rear with Falmeard. He was excitedly pointing out various features of the castle, explaining now what the four great towers to the southwest were called, and how they represented the four seasons. He was just explaining how each was topped by an appropriate observatory when they came onto the manse’s terrace.

  Falmeard was unaware they’d come to the end of their climb and continued to hold their disinterested attention. However, Leadernac strode over and prompted him further, asking firstly about the park to the north and then about umpteen other things he’d noticed.

  For some few minutes, Leadernac plumbed Falmeard’s extensive knowledge, during which time his captains quietly slipped away to join Breadgrinder. Eventually, Leadernac realised they were holding things up and so hastily thanked Falmeard, and then to everyone, “Pray, forgive me my damned curiosity, but you see, it’s a keen interest of mine, and your magnificent castle has so overcome me with curiosity.”

  He looked at Storbanther and Penolith, disarmingly adding, “I do hope I may be allowed the chance to explore a little. I’m afraid my passion has somewhat exhausted Nouwelm’s store of sights and stories.”

  Penolith found herself answering easily. “I’m sure that can be arranged, Lord Leadernac. Our two realms have much work before them, forging our alliance, so there should be plenty of time during your stay.” Leadernac bowed as he thanked her, whereupon she led them from the terrace and into the salon.

  Drax hung back to organise the guard to its sentry duties and so was last to follow them in. As soon as he did, he was surprised to see the two parties already looking quite relaxed together. As all their guests were already attended by at least one Dican, he didn’t see the need to stay and so slipped back out. He made his way around the manse to have a quick look along Eastern Street. At the parapet by the main door he came upon one of his sentries and hailed him, before resting his elbows on the rail.

  The grey cloud of earlier had thinned enough in the strengthening morning sun for the warm breeze to blow it gently away. The path Eastern Street took therefore stood out clearly, steadily rising across the northern flank of the mountain. With relief, Drax saw nothing move along it, not as far as the eye could see, and so was content the king’s army was not yet upon them.

  Upon his returned to the salon, he found Penolith coming in through an inner doorway and caught her eye. Quietly, he reported that the sentries were now posted and that no king’s force had yet been seen, for which she thanked him and returned to her place with Storbanther and Leadernac.

  As she sat down, she heard Lord Leadernac trying to clarify some aspect of the castle’s arrangement with Storbanther, who was obviously at a loss for an answer. She thought it best to have Falmeard there to furnish them with his knowledge and so excused herself.

  He was sitting silently beside Breadgrinder, looking a little lost. “Excuse my interrupting you both,” and there she turned to Breadgrinder, “but would you mind too much if I borrowed Master Falmeard, for your Commander would benefit from his particular knowledge.”

  Breadgrinder looked relieved. “Nay, madam. It’d be no more than me duty. Owt me commander wants
is reet be me, so, please, feel free … err, of course, I’ll be greatly disappointed at not hearing more of Master Falmeard’s grand tales, but ... well, duty’s duty ain’t it.” At her thanks he just waved his acceptance and contentedly settled back, raising his glass thankfully to his lips.

  Although their conversation had moved on, Leadernac interrupted what he was saying. “Master Falmeard, how good it is of you to join us. I so enjoyed our last little chat, and I’m sure you’ve more to delight me.” Falmeard soon warmed to the attention, eventually becoming animated enough to withdraw his hands from their habitual place in his sleeves, and use them to illustrate various things he was describing.

  Somehow, their conversation had wandered on to the dramatic setting of the Scarra Face. Falmeard was trying to describe the strange effects produced there, using his hands to draw the shapes conjured up by the desert heat. Penolith noticed how those hands seemed to hold Lord Leadernac’s attention. His Lordship’s mouth was, oddly enough, slightly agape.

  She continued to watch as Falmeard finished his description, noting how Lord Leadernac’s gaze had remained unwavering, and that he was now clearly unaware that the conversation had stopped. In fact, an embarrassing silence soon settled around him.

  Penolith cleared her throat but it had no effect. It was only when she asked, “Would you like another drink, Lord Leadernac?” that he seemed to be aware of them at all.

  “That would be most kind of you, my Lady, yes, another wine would be excellent. Thank you. This one’s a pretty fine vintage. Most agreeable.” By the time she’d arranged another glass, conversation had sprung up again as though it had never ceased.

  Falmeard’s enthusiasm seemed to be completely absorbing Lord Leadernac, so Penolith found time to study their guest more closely. There was still that resemblance she couldn’t quite place, but the longer she considered him, the more it diminished.