Throne of Llewyllan (Book 2)

by Ben Cassidy

  Kendril stopped short at the sight before him. A long central hallway stretched down away from the doors, ending in a large white staircase at the far end. The floor was covered with intricate rugs, some of which were undoubtedly from the Spice Lands to the far south. Finely polished wood tables and gilded chairs lined the walls on either side, while giant portraits of members of the Llewellyian royal family stretched upwards towards the vaulted ceiling. Several doorways of rich mahogany wood stood on either side of the hall, leading off to side rooms and hallways. Hanging above everything was a gigantic crystal chandelier, suspended by a golden chain.

  Across the entire length of the ceiling was a painted mural, leading all the way down to the staircase at the far end. Kendril craned his head upwards, trying to catch some of the details. It appeared to be a representation of many battles from Llewyllian history. Knights capered across blasted landscapes, while vile sultans from the Spice Lands urged their men onwards, scimitars in hand. On one panel was the famous Battle of the Lion’s Gate, with a depiction of Yeltrin the Just single-handedly holding the mountain pass against the barbarian hordes. The long-dead king stood in all his painted glory, a bloody two-handed sword in his hands as he defied his enemies to advance. On another panel was the Siege of Balneth. This painting was much darker than the others, with the red flames in it almost life-like as they consumed a city forever frozen in time. A fell creature of the Void, its mouth open in a perpetual howl of rage, was shown on top of the white walls of the city, its great sweeping claws spread to each side.

  All in all, Kendril had to admit, it was fairly impressive.

  He looked around him. The hallway was filled with people, and the sound of constant chatter created a low din. There was no sign of Serentha or the mysterious amber-eyed woman. As Kendril stepped forward, one of the many conversations around him caught his attention.

  “She hasn’t given you an answer yet?” came a low voice.

  “No,” came the reply, “but I’m sure Her Highness is wise enough to know she has little choice. She will say yes. It is only a matter of time.”

  Kendril turned slowly.

  Lord Whitmore and Sir Reginald were standing against one wall, talking together. Whitmore raised his eyebrows when he caught sight of Kendril.

  “Ah,” he said brightly, “you’re one of the men who helped the princess, aren’t you? I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Lord Whitmore, and this is my good friend Sir Reginald.” He offered a hand.

  The Ghostwalker took it and tried his best to smile. “Kendril.”

  “So,” said Sir Reginald in a cool voice, his eyes giving Kendril a penetrating glare, “I assume you will be joining us for dinner in the palace tonight?”

  The Ghostwalker nodded, and met the nobleman’s steady gaze with his own. He narrowed his eyes for a moment. “We haven’t met before, have we?”

  For a brief moment there was the slightest flash of fear in Sir Reginald’s eyes. “No,” he said quickly, “I don’t believe so.”

  “Well,” said Lord Whitmore with a laugh, “you’d better get changed, Mr. Kendril. Dinner is in just an hour.”

  The Ghostwalker switched his gaze to Whitmore. “Come again?”

  The nobleman looked Kendril up and down. “Surely you’re not going to go to dinner in…in that?”

  Kendril glanced down at his borrowed clothes and muddy boots, covered over by his black cloak. He looked back up at Lord Whitmore.

  “You would prefer I go naked?”

  Sir Reginald sneered, but said nothing.

  Whitmore raised an eyebrow at Kendril. “No,” he said slowly, “but perhaps some clothes that are more suitable to the occasion would be in order?”

  The Ghostwalker lowered his eyebrows. “I doubt it.”

  Lord Whitmore looked askance at Kendril. “Why ever not?”

  “Because, my dear Lord Whitmore,” came a new voice from behind them, “Kendril here is a Ghostwalker. His black cloak is the uniform of his order.”

  Kendril swiveled his head. The raven-haired woman he had seen before was coming silently up beside him, her face coy and mischievous. At her throat was an amber amulet that caught the light with a mystical gleam. She wore a beautiful white low-cut dress that left her shoulders bare.

  Lord Whitmore took her hand, kissing it. “Lady Bronwyn, you grace us with your presence.”

  “You are too kind, Lord Whitmore,” she replied, never taking her eyes off Kendril. “And what about you, Mr. Kendril?” she asked smoothly. She held out her hand. “Will you kiss the hand of a lady?”

  The corner of Kendril’s mouth curled up slightly. “That depends on who the lady is.”

  She gave a soft giggle. “Why Mr. Kendril, if I didn’t know better I would say you just insulted me.”

  Sir Reginald took the offered hand and kissed the top. “I for one am always pleased to be in the company of such a beautiful woman,” he said with a side-glance at Kendril.

  “Now, now, Sir Reginald,” came Bronwyn’s sweet reply, “don’t be too hard on Mr. Kendril. He is a Ghostwalker, after all, and forbidden to touch a woman. No skin contact whatsoever.” She threw her golden gaze onto Kendril’s face. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Kendril?”

  His face hardened. “Yes.”

  Bronwyn gave a soft smile, running one hand up the arm of Kendril’s sleeve. “It must get very lonely,” she breathed.

  He caught her hand by the wrist and pulled it gently from his shoulder. “I manage,” he said coldly.

  Bronwyn’s made no attempt to remove herself from Kendril’s grasp. “You must be a very brave man,” she said.

  “Bravery has nothing to do with it.” Kendril dropped her hand. “It is a penance.”

  Bronwyn gave a sudden laugh. She covered her mouth with a hand, her eyes still alive with mirth. “I have offended you, Mr. Kendril.”

  “Not at all.” He glanced down at the amulet in the crook of her neck. “That’s a beautiful stone,” he said in a measured voice. “Did your husband give it to you?”

  “Lady Bronwyn is unmarried,” said Lord Whitmore quickly.

  “Really?” murmured Kendril. “How surprising. And what exactly do you do here at court, Lady Bronwyn?”

  The young woman looked steadily into his eyes, the smile still on her face. “Why, this is my home, Mr. Kendril. My friends are all here.”

  The Ghostwalker smiled without warmth. “I’ll bet they are.”

  A flash of anger crossed Sir Reginald’s face. “Perhaps you should treat the lady with a bit more respect.”

  Kendril didn’t take his eyes from Bronwyn. “On the contrary,” he said, “I always treat a lady with respect.”

  Bronwyn giggled again. “I believe I have misjudged you, Kendril.” She glanced over at Sir Reginald, who already had one hand on the hilt of his sword. “You must forgive poor Sir Reginald. He is perhaps too quick to defend a lady’s honor.”

  The Ghostwalker glanced over at Sir Reginald as well. “He may well want to choose the ladies he defends more carefully.”

  Sir Reginald took a step forward.

  Kendril’s hand dropped to his sword.

  “Gentlemen, please,” said Bronwyn lightly. She stepped gracefully between them. “We are all friends here. Surely there is no reason for a quarrel.” She turned her head towards Kendril, a playful look on her face. “I hope we will be seeing you again, Mr. Kendril?”

  “I have no doubt we will,” the Ghostwalker replied. With one last quick glance at Lord Whitmore, he turned and walked away.

  The cell was small and damp, with only one tiny window about eight feet off the ground. What little light there was from outside was slowly fading, and Kara could hear the occasional squeak and skitter of rats in the corner. She sat motionless on her iron cot, staring blankly at the wall.

  There was a loud booming noise, and then the sound of a door squeaking open. Two voices echoed outside of the metal door that led into her room, and a moment later there was the grating sound of keys in the lo
ck, followed by her door swinging open.

  “Five minutes,” said the jailor roughly, “and no more. Understand?”

  Joseph nodded, then stepped into the cell. A second later the door slammed shut behind him.

  Kara didn’t turn her head, but continued to stare at the wall across from her.

  Joseph stood uneasily for a moment. “You have a cell to yourself?” he asked.

  Kara nodded.

  Joseph looked down at his feet for a moment. “I got you some bread and cheese. The bread was baked this morning, so it’s not exactly fresh, but I figure it must be better than whatever you’ll get in here.” He paused for a moment, then set the food down carefully on a small table near the door.

  Kara turned her head to the wall, and closed her eyes. “Please leave,” she said in an almost inaudible whisper.

  Joseph glanced down awkwardly at the bread and cheese. “I’m sorry about your brother.”

  “Just go,” said Kara again.

  Joseph took a deep breath. “There was nothing I could have done, Kara.”

  Kara turned her face towards Joseph. “You could have killed him. You had your sword. You saw what he did.”

  “One murder doesn’t justify another,” said Joseph quietly.

  The young woman sat up on the pitiful bunk. “I think it does,” she said. “If you really want to help me, you’ll find the snake who killed my brother and end him.”

  “I’m trying to get you out of here,” said the scout. “They’ve got you scheduled to be hanged.”

  “Big surprise,” mumbled Kara. She leaned forward and pushed her hands into her hair. “Why are you here, anyway?”

  “Because I want to help you.”

  She laughed bitterly. “Sure you do. Out of the kindness of your heart, right?”

  Joseph sighed, and leaned an arm against the metal door.

  “I’ll try to get you out,” he said softly, his face to the door. “I can’t promise anything. If I do, then you’ll be free to do whatever you want. You can track down this man who murdered your brother and kill him if you want.” He turned his head back towards her, a pang of sorrow suddenly on his face. “But I can tell you now that it won’t help. Revenge never does.”

  She folded her hands in front of her. “We’ll see.”

  There was a loud pounding on the cell door. “Time’s up,” came the jailor’s voice. “Let’s move it, now.”

  Joseph reached for the door.

  “Joseph—” Kara began. The scout paused, on hand on the door. “Thanks.”

  The scout looked as if he were about to respond, then simply nodded his head. The next moment he disappeared through the door.

  It clanged shut behind him, leaving Kara alone in the dark cell.

  Chapter 4

  “May I have some more wine, my dear?”

  The pretty brunette giggled. She tipped a bottle towards Maklavir’s outstretched glass.

  The diplomat took it graciously, then saluted her with it. “Thank you kindly.”

  The serving girl brushed back her hair, fluttering her eyes at Maklavir before leaving.

  He beamed and leaned back in his chair.

  “Enjoying the wine?” Kendril asked sarcastically.

  Maklavir crossed his arms. “I’m enjoying the service more,” he winked.

  The Ghostwalker rolled his eyes. “You’ve flirted with every serving girl that’s come within ten feet of the table, Maklavir,” he whispered.

  The diplomat shrugged. “Just hedging my bets.” He looked over at his companion. “Just because you’re forbidden from certain pursuits doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be prudes, you know.” He raised his glass. “Cheers.”

  They were seated at a large oak table that stretched the length of the dining hall. The room was filled with the clank and clatter of plates and glasses, and a line of servants kept a constant parade going to and from the kitchen. Close to forty people were seated at the long table, in descending order of importance. Large plates of sumptuous venison, fish, and roast boar were everywhere, while wine and bread from the kitchen flowed constantly. The dining hall itself was decorated with beautiful full-length mirrors on one wall, and windows that looked out into the garden on the other. Outside night had fallen, and the blaze of lanterns and candles sparkled brightly in the mirrors.

  Maklavir, Joseph, and Kendril, being the guests of honor, were all seated near the head of the table. Lord Bathsby and Lord Whitmore were nearby. Serentha sat next to Lord Whitmore, but Kendril noticed that so far she had hardly touched her food. She also deliberately kept her eyes from Lord Whitmore, as if avoiding any contact with the man. Next to her, at the head of the table, was her father, King Nathan.

  There was no doubt that the King was very ill. His face seemed pale and almost yellowed, though his rich beard covered much of it. As he grasped his glass his hand trembled violently, and he seemed barely able to serve himself without assistance from a nearby servant. Still, there was life in his eyes, and several times he looked over fondly at Serentha, who returned his loving smiles.

  Maklavir, by means that Kendril did not investigate too deeply, had managed to acquire brand new clothing. Even his purple cape seemed to shine with a new luster. The diplomat was soon conversing brightly with those around him, trading and sharing stories and jokes. Joseph, on the other hand, was rather quiet throughout the meal, as if something were troubling him.

  “There are reports of another settlement in the Dagger Hills being attacked,” said Lord Bathsby after a sip of wine. “We may have to send out a regiment or two.”

  Lord Whitmore delicately cut a slice of venison with his fork and knife. “Any reports on numbers?”

  Bathsby shrugged, reaching for a roll. “Hard to tell. At least a few thousand.”

  Whitmore whistled, and took a bite of the venison. “That’s quite a few clans. What do you suppose they’re all roused up about?”

  Bathsby sighed. “Who can ever tell with the Jogarthi? I’m sure it will all blow over eventually. Come winter the whole lot of them should disband pretty quickly.” He spread some butter on a roll and glanced over at Serentha. “Are you feeling well, Your Highness? You seem distracted.”

  The princess blinked, and focused on the nobleman. “Oh, yes, Lord Bathsby, I’m fine. Just…tired, that’s all.” She looked down at her plate, ignoring Lord Whitmore’s concerned glance.

  Kendril watched her carefully, his eyes shifting back towards Lord Whitmore. The hand that held his fork slowly tightened.

  There was a melodic ringing of silver on crystal. Silence settled over the table as all heads turned to the front. The royal servant who had been striking the wine glass with a spoon took a step back.

  King Nathan rose slowly and painfully to his feet, steadying himself with both hands on the table in front of him.

  “We are gathered here,” he said in between wheezing gasps, “to celebrate the safe return of my daughter,” he looked over at Serentha, “who was in the clutches of a bloodthirsty gang of villains. For this we owe the intrepidness of Lord Bathsby and the men of the Royal Guard, as well as these men,” he gestured with a shaking hand to Joseph, Kendril, and Maklavir.

  There were murmurs of “here, here,” and even some scattered applause. Joseph shifted in his seat uneasily. Kendril looked down at his plate.

  “In honor of this joyful occasion,” the King continued, “I have decreed a ball to be held tomorrow evening, to recognize the valiant courage of these men in service of the throne of Llewyllan.” With that the King sat down again, assisted by his servant.

  Excited murmurs rippled down the length of the table. Kendril looked up in surprise. Serentha smiled happily. Lord Bathsby’s face was neutral as he leaned back in his chair, his eyes shifting between Serentha and Lord Whitmore.

  “A ball?” whispered Maklavir to Kendril. He groaned. “Honestly, I’m not at all prepared for any of this. I hope to Eru there is a decent tailor’s shop open tomorrow.”

  The dinner
guests left slowly, mingling and talking under the lamps and crystal chandelier in the hallway. Serentha had retired to bed, claiming fatigue, and the King had gone as well. Maklavir was off in the billiards room, playing a hand of cards. Or at least that was where he had said he was going. Kendril suspected he was in the kitchen instead, playing a game of somewhat higher stakes.

  Joseph and Kendril were standing by a potted plant at the bottom of the palace staircase, standing awkwardly amidst the swirling crowd of aristocrats. A man in the livery of the Llewyllan royal house appeared suddenly before them.

  “Gentlemen,” he said with a deep bow before Joseph and Kendril, “your rooms here in the palace are ready for you, whenever you wish to retire. They are at the top of the staircase, the two doors immediately on your left.”

  A faint glimmer of hope appeared in Kendril’s eyes. “They don’t happen to have feather beds, do they?”

  Joseph glanced over at the Ghostwalker in surprise.

  The servant smiled. “That they do, sir. Made from the finest goose down from southern Merewith. And now, if there is nothing else, gentlemen?” The servant gave a bow, then left.

  Kendril closed his eyes, giving a contented sigh. “A real feather bed.”

  Joseph glanced over at a couple of women laughing in the corner. “I always feel like I’m sinking into a bed like that. Too used to sleeping on the ground, I suppose.”

  Kendril crossed his arms. “Have it your way. I intend to enjoy a little bit of civilized comfort for once.”

  Joseph smiled. “Well,” he said slowly, “I think I might go for a walk before I turn in.”

  “Back to the jail?” asked Kendril.

  Joseph started. “How…what do you--?”

  “Maklavir told me you ran off to the jail while he was at the tailor’s.” Kendril looked over at his companion. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain red-headed bandit, would it?”

  Joseph bristled. “Possibly,” he acceded at last.