“Perhaps we would,” my words leapt out unchecked, “if more nobles valued letters.”
Her eyes narrowed. She could not have been more than half a dozen years older than Lady Lida, but the scornful lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes aged her. “Perhaps,” her voice was smooth and cold as chilled wine, “we create kings of legend because our real ones are so uninspiring.” She raised her goblet, shooting a glance towards the dais. “Bruster’s High King should be the best ruler, not simply whoever is king of the largest island.” She sipped her wine.
Murrow’s hand was at his side, fingers on the hilt of his sword, his control not frayed enough to grasp it. Cedrick shot him a look half warning, half annoyance. “We are fortunate our High King is both.”
Lady Yvein’s eyebrows rose, slowly. Murrow’s hand closed around the hilt.
“Our traditions prevent unnecessary bloodshed.” Cedrick gave Murrow another quelling look.
“But surely you agree.” Lady Lida smiled firmly at Murrow, as if demanding his return to court propriety. “King Bluditor probably is legend. After all,” she laughed, the sound taut in the strained air, “his attackers were said to have come from beyond the Three Lands.”
Lady Yvein’s triumphant gaze remained upon Murrow for half a dozen heartbeats, then flicked to Lady Lida, speculation sparking in her eyes before impassivity returned. The queen consort of Verun was most likely wondering whether the queen consort of Eban was trying to calm nerves or was more sympathetic to her discontent than she had supposed.
With a deliberate movement, Murrow set his hand on the table, palm up. “Perhaps you are right, lady.”
Lady Lida steered the talk back to safer ground, asking Lady Wealdin for suggestions of tapestry subjects. Her blonde head inclined as she listened to the older woman.
I heard this exchange distantly. My ears throbbed, as if Lady Lida’s words had struck as fiercely in body as in thought.
Bluditor. I hadn’t heard Bluditor’s tale for years, not since before I left for Ferrant. The story hurtled back. I was seven—no, eight, and it was the first court held after my mother’s death. I remembered the singer. Not my father’s filun. Petrus’, accompanying his lord to court. The conquerors had come, no one knew whence. The kingdoms of Valenna fell. Elbs, Gwynt, and Garland fell. Bruster, led by High King Bluditor, held out nearly two years—and fell. Attacks from an unknown land…of course it had seemed merely a tale. But if the tale were true...if that force had been Saradena...did that help us?
The High King’s filun, carrying a stool as well as his harp, walked into the space between the tables. He bowed to the side tables, then to the high table, graceful despite his burdens. At the High King’s gesture, he put down his stool and sat. Once settled, he played first, as was usual, a Reudian battle tune. Then he sang of High King Benult, who had joined Edward of Roth to oppose Otto Tyrannus. I let out my breath slowly. I knew this song—every Brusterian did. I was grateful for the time to consider, uninterrupted.
We already knew contact must have occurred before. But if Bluditor’s enemy had been Saradena...if that previous contact had been unequal, not trade but conquest, Saradena’s imperiousness was less strange. They commanded, because they had commanded before. Perhaps to them, the conquest had never ended. Perhaps Saradena considered itself our overlord, despite their long absence. Horrible speculation. But mere speculation. Perhaps I guessed rightly, but there was no way to know. Nor was I certain it was helpful even if it were true. Still, I resolved to watch for information about Bluditor as I continued to search. We yet knew so little, it was difficult to say what might prove useful.
The harper finished, tossing a final flurry of tune from his strings, the triumphant sound at odds with my thoughts. The last sounds had not died away before Cedrick had his mouth open, surely to lead the talk down a benign route, but Lady Yvein spoke first.
“He sang always ahead of his harp. This is the best Reud can offer?” Her hand made a dismissive flip. “At least the song was about a real king.” Her gaze drifted to the dais. “One worthy of the rank.”
Silence smothered our end of the table. I watched my brothers struggle to conceal anger and confusion, hoping that my face did not show either too strongly. Their training had included handling subtle insults and threats, but these blatant ones were beyond what they expected. How long should they tolerate such insults? Should they tolerate them at all? It might have been entertaining, seeing their jaws clench against whatever words boiled against their teeth, if the situation were not so perilous. My own outrage was accompanied by equally intense curiosity. What possible reason could Lady Yvein have for being persistently and unmistakably offensive?
Cedrick mastered himself first. “Indeed, lady,” he said, apparently having decided to pretend not to have understood, “High King Benult was a farsighted king. Our friendship with Elbany has been an asset.”
“That—” Lady Yvein said.
But Murrow, who had begun speaking at the same moment, pressed on. Eyes blazing, Lady Yvein subsided, and he discoursed about his longtime admiration for King Benult, a depth of interest I felt certain had been conceived moments earlier.
I studied her as surreptitiously as I was able as the servers began to bring the third course. The queen consort’s statements were beyond offensive. They were provocative. Treasonous. Why make them, here and now? What benefit could appertain to Verun from open conflict at this counsel, with the supposed threat of Ragonne?
She smiled as she watched the servants moving through the hall. Verun had always been the most recalcitrant of the clustered islands, its kings chafing under Reud’s overlordship. To judge from his queen consort, the current king of Verun followed his forebears with zeal. But surely their internal conflicts must quell in the shadow of a common fear? Would not stoking civil squabbles distract from that larger concern?
Distract...
I watched her eyes flick again to the servers. A prickle of suspicion tightened my shoulders. What if distraction was her aim? I glanced at my brothers, extolling in turn the merits of High King Benult. Lady Lida and Lady Wealdin listened raptly, most likely feigning interest but grateful for silencing Lady Yvein. But that lady, far from looking annoyed, shone with satisfaction through her noble’s dispassionate expression. My unease deepened.
A serving man stepped between Hal and me to set down a dish. He’d jostled me before and this time leaned away from me, with the result he bumped Hal’s shoulder. “Pardon,” he murmured, straightening.
At least this time he acknowledged his rudeness.
I turned, watching him, wondering as I did what my instincts had noted that I’d not yet consciously seen.
Realization flashed. The man sounded nothing like a household servant of the Black Keep.
Chapter VIII
My attention full upon him now, I wondered why I had not noted his strangeness before. The deference in his voice was thin, and his accent, though Brusterian, was not Reud. The muscles in his lower arm, the calluses on his hands, spoke of sword and spear, not pots and spoons.
My gaze leapt around the hall. None of the men—and they were all men, although the Black Keep had both male and female servants—were known to me. Undoubtedly much had changed in six years, but it seemed unlikely the Black Keep’s household staff would be entirely different. I watched as a man bent to place a platter upon the high table, and saw the grace and stealth of a warrior despite his servant’s clothing.
The trickle of suspicion burst into a rush of cold fear. I saw the truth, too terrible to consider, too horrid to dismiss. The Black Keep had never been taken in an attack. But treachery might prevail.
I looked at the high table. How could I convey my concern to my father—discretely, in case I was wrong?
King Verun bent, his hand below the table. My breath caught. Had he dropped something? He was reaching for—what?
Boot knife. I was certain as if the under-king had shouted his intention. Each king wore his sword, but a cl
ose strike would be impossible with a full blade. But every Brusterian noble, man or woman, wore a boot knife, the reassuring presence of a weapon at hand, at need, and at the last. A boot knife, hidden until the last instant by the table...
Verun meant to kill the King.
I was on my feet in an instant. “Birnan! Ware the King!” One fragment of my thought wondered which I feared more. That I was right, that the next half moment Verun’s arm would thrust upwards towards my father’s heart. Or I was wrong, and would face his wrath for my unforgivable disruption of his court.
I was not wrong. But Birnan did not need my warning. He did not stand at our father’s back for mere ceremony. Verun struck, the flash of his knife swift and bright as lightning. But the point of Birnan’s sword took him before his blow reached the High King.
The hall exploded in action and noise, pulling my attention from the dais. The ‘servers’ attacked, their efforts concentrated upon the princes, swarming our table like ants on a dropped apple. Lady Yvein drew her boot knife, her eyes on Murrow.
Cedrick and Murrow, swords in hand, shoved chairs aside as half a dozen men engaged them. I pulled my boot knife and scooped up my eating knife. Turning to help Murrow, I was surprised to see Hal, knife in hand, vault the table towards Cedrick and his attackers, keening something not unlike the Brusterian war cry my brothers were sending up. As was I.
Murrow was soon too busy to do more than grunt. He fought one, three more jostling to get near enough to strike. I saw his quick glance, which noted them but also me. He stepped sideways, forcing his man to turn his back to me. I thrust my belt knife in just below the Verun warrior’s ribs. It was not a fatal blow but it caused him to leave himself open to Murrow’s next, which was. I met my brother’s gaze over the man’s falling body. Confusion and surprise were gone. His eyes shone with unleashed Brusterian bloodthirst.
He turned. Understanding, I followed suit, and we awaited our enemies back to back. In the instant before the next attackers hit I saw Hal and Cedrick had one man down and each was fighting with another.
“Bruster! The High King!” Murrow roared.
“Reud! The Black Keep!” I called back.
Two came at Murrow, one at me. His arms were longer, and the sword gave him even greater reach. Under other circumstances, I would have dodged his strikes, then cut at the arm holding the sword before he could withdraw. But with Murrow at my back I could not step away from a blow which would then hit him.
I parried the sword thrusts with my eating knife, shorter and thicker than my boot knife and more likely to withstand the impact, watching for an opening. One came, an attack Utor had taught me, a seeming aim at the belly that arced downward at the last moment and caught the leg where it joined the body. The man fell, the large artery opened.
I looked around. Murrow had one of his men down but his left leg was bleeding above the knee. I joined his attack on the other. With Murrow parrying the sword, I waited. There! I thrust my boot knife towards the side of the man’s neck, belt knife ready if I missed. I didn’t. He crumbled onto his fellow.
Verune battle calls echoed from the walls, and were answered by the men of Reud.
“Where’s Cedrick?” Murrow said.
“I don’t know.”
We scanned the hall. The men we’d seen attacking Cedrick and Hal were down, but where were they—
“There!” I pointed. They’d gone to hold the doors to keep the Verune from escaping. Murrow ran to help them. I turned to the fighting between the side tables. With the addition of Murrow’s sword the small crowd of Verune at the doors thinned rapidly. I caught a Verune by the braid and jerked his head back, reaching around to slit his throat, stepping to engage another as he fell.
“Enough!”
The High King’s voice thundered through the hall. His people turned, realizing in something close to disappointment that few remained standing but themselves. The sight of him, unharmed and in command, returned a measure of normalcy, despite the bodies on the floor and the blood on their knives. At his sides, King Petrus and King Otho turned, sheathing their swords. They had drawn, ready to defend themselves, but had not engaged the fighters. There had been no need. Once Verun’s strike had failed, his attempted overthrow was doomed. An uprising which fails to kill the King tends to be short lived. That was the second maxim we had learned as children.
“Betrayal! Craven treachery!” His voice, if anything, grew louder. “But we are the heirs of Ator, and his Black Keep will not fall. Not to attack. Nor to those who bite from within.”
Murrow appeared at my side, his mouth against my ear. “Where is Utor?”
I glanced to our father’s left. Utor’s chair was empty. “I haven’t seen him since the fighting—”
“Verun—I will not call him ‘king’—has bought his foolishness with his life,” the High King continued.
Murrow had spoken softly but Cedrick heard. He stepped closer. “Utor is dead.” His words were a barely audible breath, wavering with sorrow.
“How do you—?” Murrow said.
“Look at Birnan.”
We did. Our youngest brother stood in his place, guarding his King. But his face was moon white, his jaw clenched. His eyes kept darting to his left, and down. Dread quivered in my gut. Murrow caught my shoulder with his free hand and held. Cedrick reached for my hand.
“Yvein still lives,” the High King gestured to where, I saw with surprise, Lady Lida held Yvein, one arm twisted behind her back, her knife at her throat. I’d forgotten her in the fight, I realized with consternation, and should not have. When I’d seen her last, she had a knife in her hand, advancing on Murrow. Lady Lida, clearly, had intercepted her. “I have no doubt,” the King said, “that she aided her husband. She will be dealt with.” King Petrus looked at his new queen consort with mingled surprise and pride, a look she returned levelly, as if asking him how he had expected her to behave, if not thus.
Surely Cedrick was wrong, despite Utor’s empty chair and Birnan’s agonized glances. Surely our father would not be calmly reasserting his authority if his oldest son lay dead at his feet. I searched the crowd.
I did not find him.
My heart lurched as I looked back to our father. If Utor were dead, he would and must act as he was. Bruster’s aptness to civil conflict, as the evening had already shown, could be suppressed but not extinguished. If the Prince was dead in an attack meant to kill the High King and his heirs, the King must reestablish control immediately.
“You came here tonight for court, and tomorrow, counsel,” the High King’s voice rang dark and hard as the castle walls. “The Black Keep has seen battles before, but you did not expect one tonight. But you are Brusterian. If someone strikes, you return blow for blow. You fought well. Verun failed.”
“Prince Birnan! Laud to Birnan!” someone called.
The King lifted his hand. “Prince Birnan’s vigilance was Verun’s undoing. His sword was faster than Verun’s knife.” He guided his youngest son forward. “Laud to Birnan!”
The hall echoed the shout. Birnan looked yet more miserable. Our father’s hand clasped his shoulder.
“You may be thinking Prince Birnan does not look like a man who just saved his king and father’s life,” the High King said, full throated over the remnants of the crowd’s acclamation. The hall quieted. “That is because,” I heard the tremor of grief and anger in his voice, although I did not think the gathered nobles did, “Verun’s defeat was not without cost.”
The King stooped, hidden for a moment behind the table. Then he straightened, his arms full. Cedrick was right.
He laid his burden on the table. Cries and murmurs ran through the hall. Otho and Petrus bowed their heads.
Our father stooped again, and this time there was no gentleness. He flung Verun over the table and into the hall. The rage that he had kept under tight control burst forth, putting the strength of Ator in his arms. Verun flew like a rock from a sling. The crowd parted hastily as the body fell.
“He,” the King said, “has killed my Prince.” No amount of noble training could have kept the wrath and pain from his voice. “It is his great fortune he is already dead.”
The hall was quiet as the gathered nobles’ eyes flicked from Utor’s body on the high table, to Verun’s upon the floor, and back to the King.
“We will still hold counsel.” He gestured towards King Otho and King Petrus. Like him, they had remained on the dais during the attack, ready to fight if need be but aware of what the outcome must be and letting the princes and nobles show their worth. “We had much to consider. Now we have more.” He nodded to Cedrick, who went to open the doors. “If you will return tomorrow night, lords of Bruster, the kings will announce our decisions to you.”
The nobles recognized their dismissal, and, it seemed, their blood now cooled, most were not unhappy to be allowed to leave. The kings were not the only ones with much to discuss.
Chapter IX
The King’s gaze fell upon Hal. “Master Carlson, would you be so good as to search the keep and discover what Verun’s men have done with my household staff and guards?”
He bowed. “Of course, lord.”
“Let us hope they killed as few as possible.” Once Hal had gone, the King gestured to Murrow and Cedrick, who barred the doors of the emptied hall, then relieved Lady Lida of her captive. Both glanced towards the spiral staircase, clearly wondering if any of Verun’s men had slipped upstairs.
We stood in silence. The kings upon the dais. The rest of us—queen consorts, princes, and me—clustered before it. Verun’s body crumpled on the floor. Utor’s on the table. I kept my gaze desperately on the King’s face. I could not think about my brother. Not yet.
At length King Petrus cleared his throat. “Lord, would you like me to go—”
“You will stay here, under-king of Eban,” the High King said. “Until we learn what has passed, and what may remain to be done.”
Homegoing (The Tall Ships of Saradena Book 1) Page 40