by S. K. Alden
"I can't fight this," he whispered. "Don't want to."
She did not pull away, and her hand came up to rest against his chest. He thought she would agree, but her expression was very still.
It was all too much for her to take in, Kirin realized. "I'm just a lad from Grauvale," he murmured, trying to reassure her.
She looked at him in doubt.
He nearly lost his balance again. "Nÿr, I want this to work..." he faltered. "I would like this to work." His voice seemed to lose its strength. "If you think you could love me back."
She blinked. "How could I not?" She looked like she would say more, but instead got one shoulder under his arm and helped him stand straighter. He stretched his right leg, testing whether the hip would hold his weight.
"Stones," he let his breath out. "The scar's on fire..." He grimaced.
She stood firm, urging him to stretch the leg and supporting him until the pain eased.
After a moment Kirin stood on his own. She assessed his balance, then stood back.
"See?" He managed a half smile. "We're good together."
Her eyes were wide. "Kirin," her voice was quiet. "The minute the council found out about me..."
"No." He reached for her hand, wanting to pull her close again. "My brother is the one who counts, and my brother won't care."
"But the Court...the councilors!" She took another step back.
"Believe me, they know about me and the druid lady. Surely any rumor about you and an older man pales in comparison."
"I'm no one, Kirin." She shook her head, hands open in helpless confusion. "A fosterling of no family whatsoever. I have no right to expect..."
"Nÿr, you can hear the ravens speak. I just saw you do it." Kirin stepped forward, closing the widening gap between them.
"So? I've been able to since I got here... It's nothing."
He reached out and grabbed her hands to stop her panic. "It's everything, sweetheart," he said gently. “They are a magic from my Lady mother...a daughter of Eathom. They only speak to those she wishes to help.”
She stared at him. “How could I...”
"Don't know how," he said.
Her face paled. "But we...”
He realized she was worried now about their night by the fire. Were they even solas...? In a land with a limited number of forebearers, a lass must choose her partner from those at least three relations removed from her own.
But Kirin just shrugged. "Don't borrow trouble. Odds are we're more than three degrees apart, and that's all we need. That’s what the Oldfather told the First Ones, isn’t it?”
"How would we even know?" She whispered, eyes wide.
"Maeg will know," he said with confidence. "She has all the family genealogies. We'll just ask...in a casual, what's-up-with-the-ravens kind of way."
She looked dubious.
Kirin's gut suddenly felt hollow. He looked at her hands held in his, then back at her. "You don't want me?"
She looked up, alarmed, and her answer involved pulling him close and hugging very tight.
He heard her sniff and kissed her hair, then pressed his forehead to hers, hands cupping her face. She was too used to hiding behind duty and all this had to seem fast and impossible.
"This is right, Nÿr," he said quietly. "I feel it in my soul. You have no highborn illusions about me...and on my honor, lass...I would love and protect you to the ends of the world."
"Kirin..." she whispered. One shaky hand came up to touch his, and he held tight, feeling her breathing calm, her panic receding.
And then a polite tap on the door and a query from one of the chamberlains.
"On my way!" Kirin called back as they stepped apart.
Nÿr took a deep breath. "You're summoned," she said, reminding him of the task at hand.
And you need time to think, he realized, seeing how bewildered she was. He took her hands again, giving them a reassuring squeeze. He was heartened to feel her grip tighten in return...and his heart lifted a bit when he saw her beautiful eyes meet his. On impulse once again, he kissed her hands to show he meant what he'd said.
Her eyes brightened and there—a hint of that smile and the softest touch of her fingers on his jaw.
It was enough.
Then, despite chills and a headache, Kirin turned himself over to the chamberlains for a quick wash and a fresh set of court-appropriate clothes. Then he managed a brief word with Lady Maeg as she did him the honor of placing his prince's royal circlet on his head.
He found a ready escort in the form of his brother's pages and a few of the Royal Guard, and hoping that he looked stronger than he felt, bowed his thanks to Lady Maeg and let them lead on.
But before the door closed behind them, he heard his brother's wife asking someone to join her for tea in the Queen's study...and the person who answered was Nÿr.
—-
Gilleath sat stone still, glowering from his place on Snowmount’s great throne, twenty paces from the cloth-draped body of a King’s Guard, lying in state.
He hated legal proceedings, but it was a duty he would not shirk. He knew the law inside and out, but had he not become heir to the throne, he would have never willingly studied it.
That said, he was waiting for proof that the entire court could witness and accept. The people of Snowmount needed to fully understand someone's guilt before he administered justice. It was an important part of good rule.
"My Lord!" A guard called, as a raucous flight of ravens preceded a cadre of guards into the throne room. The birds swirled through the great hall until Gill shouted a command that had them settling, flapping and ruffling high up in the rafters.
The guards entered in two columns, escorting a group of about ten people, none of whom were residents of Snowmount.
The ones in custody were herded forward, and several sacks of evidence placed on the floor before the King.
It was old Garbhan who rose to command the guard. At his signal, the lasses in the group were offered seats to the side, but they looked away, chosing to stand with the lads.
Gill recognized Yngvi the merchant and two of his insufferable daughters. How very predictable. But his gut was telling him that Yngvi was only a smoke shield. He was betting that the real culprit was one of the others.
At a nod, one of the Guard came forward and bowed.
"The search by the ravens," he said in a voice loud enough to be heard in the hall, “Revealed these people of Albankeep hiding stores of red dust blasting powder, a mining explosive expressly forbidden under Our Law inside Snowmount. These ten," he indicated the group, "Have the residue on their hands and admit to knowingly handling it."
Gill stood. Using what he secretly called his King voice, he called out to the gathered crowd. "Does anyone present have evidence to contest this, Our Law?" It was the chance for anyone in the Hall to object.
No one did.
"What is the penalty for this crime?" Gill asked.
One of the clerks stood. "My Lord, may it please the court, the penalty concerning the possession of forbidden explosives is a fine of five thousand unsi in gold.”
Gill looked at the accused, his face still as stone. "Does anyone challenge this penalty?"
Again, no one spoke.
Gill raised one hand to signify his judgment. "The fine is called in the amount of five thousand unsi gold pieces."
Old Allon looked ready to demand the payment on the spot. The group from Albankeep remained stoic.
They ought to be, Gill said to himself. It was a pretty light sentence, and with Yngvi's money to back them up, something they could well afford. But I'm not done, he glared.
Near the body of the fallen King's Guard, lying in state, a pair of warriors dressed in mourning robes stood and signaled that they wished to address the proceeding.
Gill nodded to them. "Speak, sons of Hoskel."
They bowed in respect, then the taller of the two cleared his throat. "We respect the penalty, My King, but we petition the court: is
there not a bigger crime to be judged? Our father," the warrior stopped, his voice breaking in grief, and he gestured toward his father's body. "Our father lies here dead, victim of a rockslide intentionally set by this..." he looked in great disgust at the group from Albankeep. "Rabble. We petition the court to try these criminals for murder."
Gill held up a hand. "The court agrees. We will judge your petition." He looked to his royal clerk. "Call Prince Kirin, Commander of the Snowmount Guard, and the archer Skirfir, of the Second Archer Division, as witnesses. Call also Lord Rathsvith, Steward of Albankeep.”
Guards saluted and court attendants scurried about. Those watching the proceedings muttered in speculation.
After several consultations that took far more time than usual, one of the attendants stepped forward and bowed.
"Lord Rathsvith is reported infirm," he stated. "He will be brought down, but it is said he is represented now by his cousin, Lord Aurvang."
Gill remained expressionless, guessing exactly where they would find this Lord Aurvang. "Bring him forward."
His guess correct, Gill watched as one of the warriors in the audience, a man with an Albankeep belt and courtier’s short sword on his hip, shouldered his way forward from his hiding place in the back of the observers.
And then, through the side entrance, the King's Guard escorted two newcomers: Prince Kirin in his courtly cloak and Prince's circlet, limping slightly and looking pale, though no one except for a few knew that the reason was anything other than a minor injury. Behind him came a younger warrior in simpler archer's uniform, using crutches, one leg heavily bandaged and splinted.
A stone bench was brought forth for the young archer to sit. Gilleath approved, as it also made a perfectly reasonable excuse for his brother to sit as well. Gill could tell that neither of them should be up and about. He vowed to move the proceedings along and see them back to their beds.
Then Rathsvith, Albankeep’s Steward, was carried in on a stretcher, looking completely unconscious.
Gilleath gestured for the court's senior physician to assist.
And then the questioning began in earnest. First he prompted Prince Kirin for his report about the rockslide. Kirin covered the basics, then relayed that the archer Skirfir, only survivor of the incident well enough to appear, was witness to the individuals seen on the mountain at the source of the slide.
Skirfir was able to point out three warriors among the Albankeep group. "These three, My Lord," Skirfir said, indicating Aurvang and two others. "No mistake."
Aurvang only smirked and narrowed his eyes.
Skirfir was excused to return to the infirmary. Kirin remained.
"My Lord," the senior physician called for permission to speak.
Gilleath nodded.
"Albankeep’s Steward has been poisoned." The physician touched the man's lips, then held up a finger stained purple. "Omerid leaf."
The crowd watching the proceeding erupted in shock and hushed chatter. Omerid could be very deadly in the right dose—and only the lowest traitor would dare use it...
High overhead, the ravens darted back and forth in agitation.
One flew down to the throne, screaming his anger.
Gilleath launched himself from the dais and strode to the side of Albankeep’s ruler to see for himself. Regicide was a crime that all seven families took seriously. They had to. And for the life of a visiting Ruler to be threatened inside Snowmount? Unacceptable.
Representatives from the other Lén stepped forward to see as well. In the audience, people stared in shock.
Gill ordered that the Steward be taken to the infirmary for treatment and that guards be posted to ensure his safety. Two advisors from Hillhome accompanied them under the pretense of being impartial witnesses.
Then he spoke softly with Queen Hette from Ryland, who hobbled forward with her wooden boot and walking stick. They pondered which crime had precedence for judgment when a small fight broke out between the three lasses in the group from Albankeep. Apparently one was attempting to lay blame on two of the others in hopes of being judged innocent herself.
The King's Guard separated them, revealing several packets of the offending leaf in the skirt pocket of Yngvi's younger daughter. She cried her innocence, calling for Aurvang to help her.
And that was when Lord Aurvang simplified matters by drawing steel on the King of Snowmount inside his own Halls.
He faced Gilleath, double-edged bastard sword in his hands. "A curse on the House of Eathom," he shouted. "Conspirators!" Then he added an insult in ceilte that sounded úkenn-like.
Gill stepped clear of old Hette, genuinely welcoming the challenge to a fight. Here, finally, was a crime he could punish.
"I call for your blood," Aurvang snarled. "And the blood of all your children!"
The King's Guard looked to Kirin and Garbhan, both glowering but motionless, and then stood still.
The King could fight his own battle.
Gill took two steps away from the others, gaining fighting space. "For what reason? What has the House of Eathom done to you?"
Aurvang gripped his sword. "You supported Sea Cliff in the war. You still support them!" he pointed his sword toward Avenal.
Gill took three more steps. "And you supported Nàmhid’s Keep, is that it? You don't like that the world has changed, Aurvang. But it has."
"Has it? We ten," he jerked his head at the prisoners. "Have managed to stop Sea Cliff's treaty." He snorted, baring his teeth like a úkenn. "I say this: the legions will rise again."
Gill slowed his steps. "And the House of Eathom will always stand firm against them."
Aurvang laughed, advancing one step toward Snowmount's King. "Then you will pay."
"The sentence, Aurvang," Gill called out in a loud voice that all could hear. "For drawing steel upon the King inside Snowmount is death."
Aurvang scoffed. "You stand there weaponless!"
Gilleath, Son of Eathom and King of Snowmount, pulled his battle sword from its concealed sheath with a metallic shoosh.
"Never," he said, holding it at the ready.
Aurvang growled and raised his weapon to strike, his face red and angry.
Gill easily parried seven strikes from Aurvang, who sneered and baited as he rounded. Yet it was apparent to all that the Albankeep lord with a broadsword was no match for a battle-hardened Son of Eathom armed with a Mountain-forged weapon. Like a trainee instructor, Gill was letting the lad try his hand.
And the lad was serious. He raised his sword for an eighth stroke, a backhand. "I'll have your head," Aurvang declared, but as he swung, Gill simply stepped back and let the lad over-balance. Aurvang recovered, glaring his frustration. "And then..." he roared. "I'll have the heads of all your kin!"
On the sidelines, both Kirin and Garbhan raised eyebrows in doubt.
Gill clearly decided he'd had enough and took the advantage, pressing forward with a series of relentless downstrokes. Aurvang struggled to parry, stepping back so quickly as he did so that he nearly stumbled over his own feet. The clashing of blades rang in rapid cadence until, with one sideways swipe, Gill sent Aurvang's sword flying. The onlookers gasped, then went still and silent as the blade flew with a metallic screech halfway across the hall.
Aurvang took two more steps back...shaking his empty hand as he panted and gasped for breath.
Gill stalked forward, sword at the ready, his expression hard as stone.
Aurvang lowered his head with a growl, and then a long knife was in his hand and he looked ready to charge.
Gill didn't give him the chance—his eyes flashed at this final insult and his blade whirled smoothly in three strikes: one knocked the offending weapon from Aurvang's hand in a spray of blood, the other struck Aurvang upside the head with flat of the blade. Aurvang's head went down and to the left, and Gill spun, bringing his sword around to the exposed back of the man’s neck.
It hit with precision and a solid, audible chop to the vertebra where neck met spine.
After a moment, Gill put a boot on the traitor's shoulder and rolled him to his back, neck clearly at an unnatural angle.
Aurvang lay dead...his knife hand crushed and broken—a small pool of blood seeping from the gash where the King had neatly severed his spinal cord.
Gill pinned his gaze on the rest of the Albankeep group before him, steel in his eyes.
"Anyone else?" he asked, barely containing his fury.
To a person, those gathered in the halls were silent. The Albankeep group stood stone still.
Guilty. The whole bunch.
"Hear now my sentence," Gill said to them. "You are ejected for eternity from The Mountain," Gill’s anger and disgust made him sound more like his Grandfather Aubin than he knew. "By the Laws of Snowmount," he growled. He was done with the show of it, and he was damn well free to pass his judgment. He turned and strode back to his throne, thrusting his sword at an assistant for cleaning.
"Be it known to the Guard of Snowmount that any of these seen within a hundred leagues of our Lén shall be executed on sight," he ordered. He turned back to the nine remaining criminals. "All rights and privileges are revoked. You have one hour to be on the road."
"My lord," someone demanded. A female voice. It was Yngvi's older daughter. She pushed through the others and rushed forward, backed hesitantly by Yngvi himself.
"What about me?" she called out. "I am innocent, and I have made a marriage proposal that has been before you for over a week." She hiked her skirts up and walked toward the King, her indignation clear.
A moment later Gilleath had a wicked-looking belt knife in his hand, having drawn it in sheer anger. He'd had enough of these idiots.
The lady stopped as if suddenly aware that her own neck could be at risk.
"You're no innocent," he growled, his temper barely in check, his voice rising. "You're part of a rabble that has threatened the lives of two kings today." He paused. There were shocked murmurs in the crowd, but no one would take her part, not now. She was a criminal and a manipulator and unworthy of a place among true warriors.