by Rj Barker
“All I see so far, Merela, is proof that Rufra and his father were working together.”
“But they weren’t, Adran. They weren’t. And we all know that Neander was not Rufra’s father.” Was there a twitch of worry in Adran’s smile then? And a mirror of it on Daana ap Dhyrrin’s lined face? A widening of the king’s eyes?
“Do we know that?” she said.
“Yes. Rufra is a threat to you, your son and also to Daana ap Dhyrrin’s ambitions for his great-grandson. You may believe Rufra is guilty but Daana certainly knows different.”
“What do you mean?”
“The squires wanted your son removed from training so they could progress as Riders. Daana had them put in written requests.” The king’s gaze was fixed on the old man. “I sent Girton into your rooms, Daana, and he saw them. What did Rufra’s letter say, Girton?”
“It said, ‘I, Rufra ap Vthyr, request the heir, Aydor ap Mennix, be removed from Rider training.’ The other letters read the same but were signed by different squires. Rufra’s request was on top, and someone had started to scrape off the the words ‘from Rider training.’” Adran shot a furious look at Daana ap Dhyrrin.
“You tried to have my son killed to set up Rufra?”
My master smiled. “He didn’t try to have your son killed, Adran, but he did try to set up Rufra. He probably came up with the idea when the king’s Heartblade was killed and he realised an assassin had been employed. By placing blame on Rufra, he removes a threat to his favourite grandson and ensures you let your guard down for the real assassin to move in. All his problems are solved in one sweep and his hands are never dirtied. When I asked him for leave to exit the castle he saw his opportunity. He must have seen Heamus leave and made the connection. Fitchgrass knows, the man made enough noise.”
“And how, mistress assassin,” said Daana ap Dhyrrin, “would I know what Heamus storming out the castle meant?”
“I was just getting to that, Daana,” she said. “It seemed very strange to me that you were so open about your ambitions for your grandson. Unless, of course, you knew something that made you feel like you were safe.” She turned away from Daana. “Queen Adran, how are your negotiations going with the high king regarding marrying Aydor to his sister?”
“I don’t see that’s any of your business,” she said. “Ambition is not treason.”
“No, it is not. But it is no secret that the marriage is unlikely. The high king is not the type to be blinded by your beauty and do as you wish. No doubt he sees your ambition and has no wish to invite a scorpion into his castle.” A soundless laugh from the king. “So, knowing that, you have made other arrangements.”
Adran glowered. “I don’t know what you mean.” The king was staring at Adran now, his gaze unswerving.
“When I explained to Girton about the high king’s family and why I thought a marriage unlikely, he asked if you were going to start a war. I thought the idea ridiculous because you could never scrape together enough troops.” Queen Adran blinked, looked to her husband, looked away. “But it wasn’t ridiculous, was it? You didn’t think you’d need an army. Daana ap Dhyrrin knew what you were doing—” Doran was nodding now, his head moving slowly up and down as my master spoke “—which is how he knew that Heamus storming out to the stables meant Neander may soon be running for his life. And it’s also why Daana ap Dhyrrin was not frightened of you. He knew Neander and Heamus were training sorcerers—” she smiled at the queen “—and he knew they were doing it for you and your son. He could expose you so you daren’t move against him.”
“I’d be a fool to use sorcerers,” snapped Adran.
“Oh you would. The Landsmen would bring everything they had against you. Maybe you thought the threat would be enough. And Daana ap Dhyrrin didn’t stop you because he couldn’t lose. You get what you want? He gets Castle Maniyadoc for Tomas. Something goes wrong with your scheme? You are disgraced, and he gets Castle Maniyadoc for Tomas. I expect you pushed Neander and Heamus to give you sorcerers quickly. You have never been patient. So Neander used increasingly brutal methods. It was probably falling apart well before Drusl killed Kyril. Heamus had no stomach for Neander’s methods, and his sorcerers, as poor Drusl showed, were increasingly unstable. When we started looking for the assassin we started to get too near to your secret—”
“This is all nonsense,” said Adran, but she could not look at her husband who stared intently at her from his deathbed. “Why would I invite you here if I was planning such treason?”
“You invited me here,” said my master quietly, “because you thought our past meant I could be manipulated and because, though you have many terrible and ruthless qualities, Adran Mennix, you do love your son. In your own way.”
“I think the strain has broken you, Merela,” said Adran. Did she sound frightened? “You cannot expect me to believe Rufra innocent when all you have is a fairy story concocted from fancies and wishful thinking.”
“This woman sounds desperate, Queen Adran,” said Daana ap Dhyrrin. “Maybe she wants to ingratiate herself with the Landsmen in the hope they will overlook the fact she is an assassin?”
“Possibly,” said Adran, “though I doubt anyone would believe the word of an assassin. As long as we stand together, Daana, we have nothing to worry about.”
“These ‘fancies,’ as you call them, were necessary so you would understand who really wants your son dead.” My master’s tone was ice, and her fingers flicked out signs telling me to stand close to her.
The king’s head slowly turned so he could look at my master, and his mouth opened slightly, his tongue wet his lips.
“And just who is it that wants Aydor dead?” sneered Adran. “I see no one else here.” She sounded smug.
“Look harder, Adran.” My master stared past Adran at the bed.
“The king?” Adran’s face went white. The king coughed. His cough became a laugh and then a cough again. He forced a smile onto his face though pain wracked him and drool ran down one side of his chin. Adran took a step back to stand next to her husband’s head and placed a hand on the bed. “Doran?” Her hand scrabbled at the blankets looking for the king’s hand, but she could not find it. He simply stared at her. She turned from him, back to face my master. “You lie, Merela. You are a bitter, beaten woman trying to cause trouble. My husband hates assassins.”
“Not as much as he hates sorcerers and poisoners.” The king continued to watch, the only life left in his eyes, which sparkled, as if in amusement.
“No,” said Adran.
My master carried on speaking, using a pointing finger to stab out her words—she was relentless.
“Nothing made any sense here. Such a web of lies and deceit. Aye, it is the same as all castles, but it was not until Girton told me twice that the king recognised him as an assassin that everything came together in my mind. Do you know what he said to Girton, Adran?” The queen sank down until she was sitting on the bed. “He said, ‘make it quick,’ and he raised his head to bare his throat. Girton thought the king believed we had come for him—natural enough as we all know you are poisoning him. Girton didn’t know the king was saluting him and asking him to make sure his target didn’t suffer. The king would only do that if he expected an assassin. And he would only expect an assassin to present themselves to him if he had requested one.” She lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “He knew what you were doing, Adran. He knew.”
The king did not move, could not for all I knew, but his eyes were constantly shifting spots of light as he watched the people in the room play out their drama.
“No,” said Adran in a much softer whisper than my master’s. She turned to the king. “Doran, he is our son.”
“Magic,” said King Doran ap Mennix in his weak rasping voice, “is an abomination. It cannot be allowed back into the land. There could be no worse betrayal, Adran.”
“But it was for Aydor, Doran—all of it. If you had asked I would have stopped. You should have told me. I would have s
topped.”
“No,” said Doran, “you would not. You lie even now. You know no other way.”
Something ignited in Adran’s eyes then, a fierce anger.
“It was for our son, Doran!” she shrieked. “Our son!”
“He’s weak, Adran, not fit to rule. And to use magic? So much pain you have caused me.” He narrowed his eyes and a thin line of blood-flecked spittle ran from the corner of his taut mouth. “I wanted you to watch your son die, Adran. I wanted you to hurt and then I wanted to watch you die in despair. Just like I am.” He started to laugh but it become a cough. Droplets of blood hung like dew in his beard
Adran stared at her husband, her face frozen as if an artist had drawn the worst possible version of her; a woman haggard, old and bitter. Then she drew on some well of inner strength and her face hardened, her lips became a thin white line.
“All this relies on the king being alive to vouch for you, Merela.” She stood. “Without him you have nothing.” She drew a long slim dagger from her jerkin. “And my husband will be dead well before any Landsmen get here.”
“I have a letter signed by the king.” My master tapped her jerkin and her other hand flickered out, “Be ready.” “I will leave it with the Festival Lords and instruct them to give it to the Landsmen when they arrive.” A flicker of a smile crossed the king’s face and I wondered whether it was really magic he hated, or his wife. “You are over, Adran. You are finished, and so is Aydor.”
Adran glanced over at Daana ap Dhyrrin who nodded slowly.
“She is right, Adran, I am afraid,” he said, “and you will bring us all down with you.”
“Do not listen to this assassin, Daana,” said the queen. “There is a way out of this for all of us.”
“Yes, of course. You are right, my queen. There is always a way out.” Daana ap Dhyrrin reached back into his elaborate headdress, like an old man about to scratch his head in thought. Then his hand flashed forward. A throwing knife cut a glittery path across the room and buried itself in the throat of Queen Adran Mennix. She slumped to the floor, a look of surprise on her face as she began to drown in her own blood. Her eyes searched for help. First she looked to my master but found no pity there. Then she looked to me for help she was already far beyond. Lastly she reached out a bloodied hand towards the king but his face was stone as he watched the light go out of her eyes.
Daana ap Dhyrrin smiled as he watched the queen die. Then he raised his voice. It was far louder than I expected of a man so old.
“Help!” he shouted. “Assassin! Assassin! The queen is dead! Assassin!”
I drew my blade to silence him, but my master grabbed my arm.
“Forget him, Girton,” she said. “Now we run.”
Chapter 27
My master pushed back the tapestry; behind it were our weapons. She took her stabswords as I grabbed my Conwy longblade. Then she pushed me towards the door and I kicked it open. Daana ap Dhyrrin continued shouting, “Assassins!” while he advanced on the king with a blade. I spun, ready to help the king but my master pulled me from the room.
“Doran ap Mennix knows he’s finished no matter what. At least this way is quicker than the poison. Come!” She grabbed me by my shoulder. “Kill anyone who tries to stop us. We have no friends here.”
I’d expected the guards that had been sent out of the king’s room to be waiting for us. Instead I was greeted by the clash of arms. Adran’s two guards were fighting two of Daana’s guards; the other two were vanishing down the corner stairs, shouting, “It has begun, it has begun!” Forgetting I was meant to be escaping the castle, I watched the soldiers lay into each other with pikes. For a moment I was hypnotised by the struggle and then my master was dragging me away.
“What is happening, Master?”
“You know how nervous the guards have been? This castle is full of spies, Girton. Behind the timidity of the blessed is a hotbed of paranoia and factions. Two hours ago I made sure four guards loyal to Daana ap Dhyrrin were found with their throats slit.” She grinned her feral grin. “Such a move is close to a declaration of war. This place has been a wildfire waiting to happen since the moment we got here and we have set the spark. Now we must hope not to get caught up in the ensuing blaze.”
We rounded a corner and four guards, all with red paint splashed on their arms, rushed at us with their pikes held low. With a flick of her wrists my master sent two sleek throwing daggers spinning out to take the front two guards in the throat, then slid to a stop, coming down on one knee as I followed up with my longsword. The two guards following jerked their pikes aside to avoid skewering their stricken comrades and I slashed my sword across at throat height, cutting them both down.
The deaths of the four guards had taken less than a second.
At the first stair we came to there was a thick scrum of guards with red splashes trying to stop another group coming up.
“Back,” said my master before the guards noticed us. “We head for the other corner stair, though I imagine that will be guarded too.”
“What about the main staircase?”
“Will be the most heavily guarded of all.”
“We could go down the outer wall.”
“Not in this wind, and both factions will have archers and crossbowyers watching the walls.”
“Then we fight and die here,” I said.
“No. Never give up, Girton. Not until the last drop of blood has run from your body.” She grabbed my sleeve. “Come on.”
We ran back the way we had come and straight into another small group of guards. They were ill prepared for us. I cut the first down before she had the chance to draw her blade. The second raised a sword and I ran forward, barrelling into him with my shoulder and knocking him off balance. As we fell I forced my dagger in beneath his armpit, hearing his heart burst in a pained gasp, feeling it in the rush of hot blood over my hand. Beside me my master dodged a sideways slash and darted in, her blade opening the neck of one attacker, who fell, clasping at a wound that would not be staunched. With a backwards slash she brought down her second attacker.
And then misfortune caught us.
There are moments in a fight when no amount of skill can save you, and this was one. A crossbowyer stood further down the corridor, his weapon loaded and aimed at my master, his eyes wide with fear. The second my master saw him she threw a knife and leaped out the way of his bolt. Had he aimed true all would have been fine, but in his fear he had turned to run at the same time he loosed the bolt from his crossbow and it went wide. Instead of leaping out of danger my master leaped into it. The bolt took her in the thigh at the same time her knife took the crossbowyer in the back of the neck
“Dead gods!” Her leg gave way under her.
“Master!”
“Help me up, Girton.”
I pulled her up taking her weight on my shoulder. I heard voices—more guards coming towards us.
“We’re lost,” she said.
“No.” I glanced behind, expecting soldiers to appear around the corner. Instead, down the corridor, I saw the priest of Xus, clothed in black robes and with a face eternally locked into a half sneer/half smile. He was bent over the corpse of the crossbowyer. I froze. He straightened up and raised his head, exposing a milk-white throat to me, then pushed aside a tapestry and vanished behind it.
“Come on, Master.”
I pulled her down the corridor and behind the tapestry was a door—a secret passage. I caught a glimpse of a black robe vanishing into the darkness ahead of us and followed, letting the tapestry fall back into place behind me and plunging us into a darkness so complete I could not see my own hand in front of my face.
“Shh,” said my master. I could hear water dripping and something scraping rhythmically against stone. Faint voices raised in anger, though they seemed to be a long way off, and somewhere in front of us the pitter-patter of footsteps.
My master’s warm hand found mine.
“Well done, Girton,” she gasped. “I did
not even know this passage was here.”
I was about to say something about the priest of Xus but realised my master had not seen him, even though she had been looking straight at him.
“Are you badly hurt?” I asked.
“No.” She spoke through pain-gritted teeth. “The bolt passed through, but I am bleeding freely.” I heard the ripping of material and then a gasp as she pulled a tourniquet tight around her leg. “I should be able to walk now, Girton. You lead.”
I followed the sound of the priest of Xus’s steps.
“Stairs,” I said as my foot probed the ground before me. “Careful, Master, they are damp and slippery.” We moved down and along, always following the footsteps, which skittered away in front of me. Occasionally the priest would stop to allow us to catch up, and sometimes I heard strange and inhuman laughter—though it sounded like it came from very far away.
“Hedgings, master.”
“Stories for children, Girton. Keep moving.”
Round and round we went, feeling our way along damp walls and down slimy stairways. These tunnels felt different to the ones Adran had taken us through to see Kyril’s body: older, so old it was almost like we travelled through another world. When I finally opened a door back into the keep a blinding light flooded the tight space between the walls, and though it felt like we had walked a long way, I realised we had only gone down two floors.
We crept along a corridor until we found two guards wearing yellow and purple tabards identifying them as loyal to the ap Mennix line. They were on edge, jittery, but all their attention was focused on the door to the stairway in front of them.
“Tomas’s lot going to come up or down the stairs, Girron?” said the guard on the left. Despite her wound my master still managed to be utterly silent as we limped towards the two guards.