Leinahre was his secretary—had been his wife’s, actually, but he kept her on after the tragedy. Everard was always overburdened, and an assistant had been just what he needed. Besides which, Leinahre was the youngest daughter of a minor nobleman in vassalage to the Aharris family, and it didn’t do to cast aside those to whom you had obligations. After ten years of having her around, he was too fond of the girl to send her home with nothing to show for her service. Perhaps he could help her with an advantageous marriage; yes, that would just be the thing, a marriage to a higher-ranked nobleman, the kind her father could never broker without Lyram’s influence. Only in her early twenties, she was still young enough to attract a good match.
“Who can sleep now, and here? With that out there?” Leinahre shivered and stepped closer. “Unquiet ghosts walk these walls, my lord. Ahura is near.... I can feel her.”
A shiver ran through him too. Women had a closer affinity to the goddess of death, and only women served Ahura. She seemed a constant part of their life once they reached child-bearing age. But no soldier needed to be told death lurked close at hand on the eve of battle, nor wanted the reminder. Besides, unquiet spirits were part and parcel of his life, now. The breeze almost sounded like Zaheva whispering in his ear.
“There will be death aplenty.”
She nodded and looked into his eyes. “I’m certain of it, my lord.” The darkness turned her blue eyes to huge, shadowed pools, and her face was wan beneath trails of rain, a reminder of the beautiful frailty of human life.
If only I’d gotten the women and children to safety before this all started.
She stepped closer again, reaching out to twine her fingers into his gloved hand and squeeze in gratitude. “I offered prayers of thanks to Chalon you are here. We could not ask for a better commander.”
He opened his mouth to point out that no commander could overcome sufficiently poor odds, but the words stuck in his throat. No one wanted to hear that.
“How long do you think we can hold out, my lord?”
He disentangled his fingers gently, clearing his throat. “Uh, well. It depends. Caisteal Aingeal is almost impregnable, but we’re heavily outnumbered.”
Footsteps echoed out of the distant stairwell, the sound distorted by the dark and the rain. The torches in the entrance to the stair turret flickered fitfully as someone passed, but the shadows hid who approached.
Leinahre moved closer and stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, her lips as fleeting as the first winter’s kiss of snow—an almost shocking sensation in the rainy solitude of the night.
“You will bring us home safe, my lord. Good morn.”
Lyram put his hand to his cheek and stared after her. That had been a little more forward than was appropriate for his secretary, even as an expression of gratitude in an understandably frightening time. She’d only been thirteen when she first joined the household, and the transition from girl to woman, and adjusting to their respective roles of vassal and master, had at times been awkward. He’d thought them past that, but perhaps the stress of the situation was taking its toll.
Everard appeared out of the darkness, approaching down the wall and passing Leinahre as she swayed back towards the gate-tower stairs. Dawn had crept up unawares, lightening the sky enough to reveal the suspicion written across his face as he stopped alongside.
“What did she want?”
“Nothing but to talk. She had trouble sleeping.”
Everard gave him a sceptical glance, pushing his slipping spectacles up his nose. “A wise man treads warily with women.”
“Advice from you on women?” Lyram laughed. “You’re too suspicious, Everard. The court is rife with politics—a glance laden with meaning, a whispered word of poison—but not everyone plays those games.”
“Mmhmm.” Everard leaned against the crenels, and jerked back with a grimace. Water had soaked the sleeves of his coat and the folds of his plaid, ruining his ridiculous display of impeccable presentation so early in the morning. “A man doesn’t need a wife, or need to want one, to know how much trouble they can be.”
Lyram glanced at him sidelong. “You don’t want to be out here.”
His aide sniffed. “No man in his right mind would want to be out here, but this is where you are.”
Lyram said nothing, allowing the silence to drag. The location suited his mood—grim, lonely and melancholy—a mood not eased by either Leinahre’s or Everard’s presence.
Everard cleared his throat. “You meant what you said, about this being a strike at you?”
He lowered his voice. “Yes. You believe me?”
“Your reasons?”
Lyram’s hands curled against the rough, wet stone. What to say? He had enough enemies that more than one person wanted him dead at any one time. His family was popular with the people, but much less popular with the nobility; their refusal to play at politics and their legendary inability to be bribed left many at court disgruntled and sour.
Blackmail is the tool of choice against those who cannot be bribed.
A shiver went through the length of him, and he glanced down the wall. Soldiers manned the walls, and who knew how far sound might carry? If he answered Everard’s question, he needed to do so without reference to Drault’s blackmail; he couldn’t risk repercussions for his family. The only safe secret was one never shared.
“What’s here, Everard? A shrine to Ahura, significant only to a few religious nuts, and certainly not a point of political dissension. This castle is too deep into the Borders to be raided—unless the border keeps have already fallen....”
“A possibility.”
Lyram snorted. “That force never took Keep Kragmyre or the Howling Castle—though I’ll concede this might be only a splinter of such a host.”
“Your real point, I think, is that you are here.”
“Yes.”
“Other people might want you dead beside the prince, though. Any number of people were thwarted when you ended the feud between us and Velena, and many are unhappy about sealing the peace with a union between Prince Drault and Princess Hahlyna. I hear Sayella’s father is one of them.”
Lyram sighed, and placed one boot against the wall, leaning forward to rest on his own knee. “The earl has never formally acknowledged his fathering of Sayella.”
“That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t use her,” Everard said. “And it doesn’t have to be him anyway—another Velenese noble could have put this in motion.”
Everard’s argument couldn’t be easily rebutted, and his head still swam from the whisky. He rubbed his fingers against the pounding that had started in his temples.
An attempt at personal retribution wouldn’t carry the might of Velena behind it, and so probably couldn’t capture either border castle, which left the question of how the force out there had made it this far—unless the besieging commander somehow conspired to slip past either castle without a battle....
Such a thing wouldn’t be easy. A few men across the border here, a few there.... Soldiers disguised as merchants, or travellers, coming across the border at every pass possible. While the border was open and technically such a plan was possible, it seemed farfetched and would require months if not years of planning. Or one might make use of a mercenary company already within the borders of Ahlleyn on legitimate business. Sayella could have brought her Gallowglaighs across the border more or less openly, subject to the usual restrictions on mercenary companies.
Besieging a castle required more than just men, though. Both options required the enemy soldiers to build their own siege equipment, as they wouldn’t be able to bring that across the border, and then what about supply lines? Merchant caravans, perhaps, until news of the invasion reached the Border Lords and they sealed the border. That would explain why the enemy had been so assiduous in preventing any messengers leaving. But that was a very risky strategy. The enemy might use a frictionnaire, if one powerful enough and amenable enough could be found. If so, hopefully keeping the army su
pplied would leave him too exhausted to use his magic in the battles.
“Well, I concede you could be right. It is theoretically possible, at least.” Lyram sighed again. “But the enemy would be trapped within our territory with a significant number of hostile troops between him and the border. It would be a suicide mission, years in the planning. Someone would have to hate me very much.”
“This peace has been years in negotiations, and I can think of three Velenese off-hand who hate you that much.”
Lyram grimaced and dropped his foot, pushing away a lock of sodden hair that slipped into his eyes. Rain and the night turned it almost black. Those Everard referred to—two men and a woman—were dedicated Velenese patriots, outspoken against the impending marriage and vociferous in their bile-laden hate for Lyram. The Butcher of Invergahr, wasn’t that what they called him? As if I killed anyone who wasn’t trying to kill me.
He reached for his whisky flask again, then dropped his hand. He’d had enough for one night and would need his wits about him when the sun rose. It was bad enough he’d not slept this night without adding more liquor to the exhaustion blanketing his brain.
Lyram stared at the bland face of his aide through streamers of rain sparkling in the torchlight. “You think this an attempt to take us back to the bad old days?”
“It would put an end to the marriage and the peace with it. The mere fact that Velena had crossed the border and attacked the castle might do that, unless King Jorgen punishes those responsible very severely. If they actually succeed in killing you... the Velenese zealots would be very happy when all the treaties unravelled, and they would feel vindicated against you personally.”
The theory possessed a certain elegant simplicity that Lyram’s own lacked. If Drault wanted him dead, why didn’t he produce his so-called evidence that Lyram was a murderer? Zaheva’s connections with the Tembran nobility meant they’d almost certainly call for Lyram’s death, and King Alagondar would be pressured to go along for diplomatic reasons. Or Drault could assassinate him. That would be a far simpler solution than this elaborate cloak and dagger routine...
Lyram knuckled his head. The play and counterplay of battle strategy came to him naturally in a way that the manoeuvring of politics did not, and now his head ached. Drault might want him ruined rather than dead, otherwise he’d become a martyr to the common people. And even a rumour of the prince’s involvement in Lyram’s death would destroy what little reputation the prince had with the people. By contrast, Lyram’s tragic death in what appeared to be a border squabble with Velena would go unremarked in internal Ahlleyn politics—though not, of course, in foreign relations. But he dare not say any of that to Everard without explaining the blackmail. And would Drault really risk the peace to kill him? My ego is out of control.
Something flickered out in the grey twilight of fading night. Lyram leaned forward over the cold, wet stones, his mail scraping on the wall. “Did you see that?”
“What?” Everard folded his arms inside his plaid and peered into the dark with a marked lack of enthusiasm.
“A light....” Lyram pointed at the elusive, bobbing light, winking in and out of sight. “A torch?”
He fumbled for his eyeglass on his belt, raised it, and swept the fading darkness. The movement made his head spin dizzyingly. A glow flickered through the glass, and he reversed direction, scanning more slowly. A woman’s face leapt into view, illuminated by the torch she carried.
He stared, transfixed, the eyeglass pressed hard to his face. “Zaheva...”
Everard snatched the glass from him. After a moment to get the eyeglass aligned with his rain-dotted spectacles and locate the woman, he frowned, his brow wrinkling under his thinning grey hair. “How did a girl get here? And a Tembran at that.”
Lyram took the glass back from his aide. “Perhaps more to the point, how did she get between the castle’s walls?”
While scaling the outer wall was theoretically possible, surely the enemy patrolled it now, and why would a girl walk into an obvious warzone?
He peered at the woman again. Everard was right: she was Tembran, like Zaheva, with their typical black hair and porcelain skin. He stared, paralysed. Memories flashed through his head, of his wife’s body battered and broken, her skirts about her hips, blood smearing her thighs. He squeezed his eyes shut against sight of the girl, against the torrent of memories. Chalon help him, if he’d not been delayed, if he’d met Zaheva like he promised, she wouldn’t now be dead. The images of that day beat against the inside of his eyelids, and his fear that the same might happen to this girl deepened.
“I think they’ve seen her.” Everard pointed towards the enemy encampment.
Lyram swung the glass in that direction. With sunrise on the horizon, and the rain eased to a light mist, movement was visible in the old gate. A rider led a horse through a small group of soldiers. Behind him, archers streamed up, taking places along the inside of the outer wall.
“Ahura’s blade.” Lyram lowered the glass.
“They won’t attack her, will they?” Everard hovered, his stork-like frame hunched in worry.
“Those men besieging us are more likely mercenaries than the enlisted men of any nation. They could do anything to a lone woman, particularly in the course of interrogating her. They’ll want to be sure she’s not a spy. Bring me a horse!”
The guard nearest the tower stair jumped, abandoned his pike, and disappeared down the steps in a clatter of mailed feet.
Everard seized him by the arm. “You can’t go out there!”
Lyram shook him off impatiently, snatched up his helm and started down the stairs. “I can and I will.”
Everard hurried after him, huffing and puffing in the enclosed space as he tried to keep up on the narrow, winding stairs.
Lyram burst from the lower doorway into the lightening courtyard. The guard led a saddled horse from the small stable, and at sight of Lyram he broke into a trot, pulling the horse behind him. The animal shook its mane impatiently and lengthened its stride.
Lyram bellowed for the gates to be opened. As the inner portcullis cranked up, the sound of the bolts releasing on the successive gates echoed through the courtyard, and gate guards ran to open each portal.
Lyram stared through the open barbican at the blackened remains of the bridge.
“The bridge is gone,” Everard said.
“I think there’s a portable sally bridge in the armoury, my lord.” The soldier holding the horse ducked his head by way of acknowledgement of his commander. One of the castellan’s men, he wore no plate over his mail. “The castle keeps one for this eventuality—so we still have access out of the castle if the permanent bridge is destroyed. I don’t know what condition it’s in.”
Lyram took the reins from him. “Go. Find it.”
The soldier raced away, calling other guards to assist him. They disappeared into the armoury at the far end of the courtyard, square against the cold smithy. After long minutes they emerged again, wrestling a long awkward span of wood between them.
“I don’t know how much good that will do you.” The castellan stepped up to join Lyram, giving him a wry smile. “It’s designed to sit atop the existing frame, in case the bridge is rendered unusable in wartime by axe. Not fire.”
He understood. Too much damage and the underlying structure wouldn’t support the portable bridge. “I only need two trips.” Lyram shoved one boot into the stirrup.
Everard seized his arm, pulling him back down.
“You can’t go! What if it’s a trap? What if she’s a spy? You said yourself the enemy would suspect it. What fools would we be to discount the chance? And she’s a Tembran, at that. If either of us is right...” He lowered his voice, though he kept his words circumspect. “What better way to lure you out?”
“We can always toss her in the prison, but we can’t bring her back from the dead.” More likely Drault, by Everard’s logic that a Tembran woman could be used to draw him out, since any faceless Velen
ese enemies would likely believe he’d killed his own wife. Lyram shook Everard off. “I cannot stand here and let them take her. I cannot lie awake at night wondering what fate might await her. I must at least try.”
“Then send someone else!”
Lyram seized Everard by the front of his coat and leaned close to his aide’s face. “Don’t you understand, Everard? Every day I live in a hell of my own making, knowing that but for my broken promise, Zaheva would still be alive and well. No penance will ever expiate that sin.”
Everard’s nose wrinkled and he tried to draw back; with the amount of whisky Lyram had drunk, his breath must reek of alcohol.
A soldier called down from the ramparts. “Sir, the enemy rider has left their lines!”
“There’s no time!” Lyram let go of his aide, and spun back to the horse, swinging quickly into the saddle, then pulled the plumed helm from his head and thrust it at a soldier. “Your helm, man.”
For a moment they juggled helmets, until Lyram shoved the man’s unadorned one upon his head. The horse danced under him, sensing the nervous excitement.
Lyram looked over his shoulder at Sir Janun. “Have the longbowmen form up on the battlements, my lord. In case I need cover.”
Everard almost bounced on his toes. “In love with death, I said. You’ll be the death of us all! You’re not thinking straight!”
Probably what he wanted to say was that Lyram had been drinking too much to think straight, but he wouldn’t voice that aloud where the men could hear. Lyram brought the horse around in a ringing of iron-shod hooves on cobbles. The details of Everard’s further protests were lost in the noise. Lyram’s head spun at the sudden movement, and he put one hand to his head. Is Everard right...? No, he hadn’t had as much whisky as usual, and only one drink in the last hour or so.
Galdron burst from a door at the far end of the courtyard, waving his arms for Lyram to stop as the soldiers ran the portable bridge out atop the burnt timbers and shoved it to the other side.
Lyram clapped his heels to the horse’s flanks, and the horse leapt into motion as the soldiers retreated to either side of the castle gate. I couldn’t save her.
In the Company of the Dead (The Sundered Oath Book 1) Page 4