Blood of Mystery

by Mark Anthony

  It was the castle’s steward who answered, and Falken—his right hand now tucked beneath his cloak—bowed low. As soon as the bard finished speaking a formal request for hospitality, the steward hurried them inside and shut the heavy door against the gale. The steward was a young man, little older than Aryn, Grace guessed, but he walked with a stoop that suggested curvature of the spine, probably as a result of malnutrition as a child. His face was homely but kind, and when he beckoned for them to follow they did.

  Grace was surprised he didn’t ask them questions—who they were, where they were from. From what she had been able to see, the landscape around the castle was bleak and empty; she doubted they got many visitors. Then again, she had learned the laws of hospitality were important, even sacred, in the Dominions. If requested properly, shelter could not be denied to a stranger. However, in turn, leave to depart must be begged from and granted by the lord. Which all reminded Grace of an old rock and roll song, something about checking into a hotel anytime you wanted, only never being allowed to leave. She shuddered, but only because she was soaked from the rain.

  Though ancient, the keep was obviously well kept. Tapestries draped the walls, blocking the worst of the drafts, and oil lamps lit the corridors without too much smoke. As castles went, it smelled better than most. Grace knew Durge was an earl, but also that his home was a simple manor house, not a keep like this. Perhaps Elwarrd was high in King Sorrin’s favor.

  Word of their arrival must have been sent ahead, for the earl was waiting for them when they reached his hall, located on the second floor of the keep. It was much like the great hall of Calavere, but no more than a quarter the size, with soot-stained beams supporting a high ceiling and a wooden gallery overhead. A curtain covered one end of the hall, and Grace knew beyond was the earl’s solar, or personal room. To her delight and relief, a fire crackled in a fireplace tall enough for her to stand in, and the hall was deliciously warm and smoky.

  Grace was startled when Falken introduced them simply as four travelers in need of shelter. However, the earl didn’t ask their names, and instead he introduced himself and his steward, who was named Leweth. There ensued a good deal of bowing and curtsying, and Grace could only hope she approximated the right motions at the right time.

  Elwarrd was forty, Grace estimated, but he was still athletic and markedly handsome. He was not tall, even for this world— the top of his head came only to Grace’s nose—but he was well proportioned. His eyes were ocean green, his nose was hawkish, and the line of his mouth was strong but not cruel. His auburn hair and beard were both short and curly, and flecked with gray. Grace found herself captivated, and when she finally managed to look away, she saw Beltan’s eyes locked on the earl. Vani, in turn, stared at the knight with a look of reproach.

  If not for how cold she was, Grace might have laughed. Vani was jealous of Beltan’s love for Travis. Yet it was also clear the assassin was outraged that Beltan would look desiringly at another man. Then Grace saw Elwarrd’s gaze traveling up and down her body, and she realized there was little chance of Beltan betraying Travis in this castle. Heat washed through her, and not just from the fire. She adjusted her cloak, doing her best to conceal her sodden gown, which no doubt revealed more than she would have preferred. Nor was the cold helping matters any in that regard.

  “You must sit by the fire,” Elwarrd said, “while Leweth sees to your chambers and finds dry garments for you.” His voice suited him perfectly: deep and clear, like the toll of a bell.

  Grace was glad for the chair the steward deftly slid beneath her; she wasn’t sure her legs would have supported her much longer. They sat as close as they dared to the fire, drinking spiced wine, and their clothes soon began to steam. Despite all that had happened that day, Grace felt curiously awake and alive.

  It’s the adrenaline, Doctor. It’s all that’s been keeping you going since the beach. And as soon as your body settles down and stops producing it, you’re going to crash. Hard.

  She listened as Falken told Elwarrd their story, and it was interesting to see what the bard skillfully left out of the tale. According to Falken, they were from the Free Cities, and they had been bound for Omberfell, where they were to seek out suppliers of precious gems. They all belonged to the gem cutter’s guild, except Beltan, who was their hired protector. However, their ship had broken against a shoal, stranding them on the beach.

  Falken gave the earl Vani’s true name. But the bard named himself Faldirg, and Beltan he called Boreval, and Grace got the name Galinya. Grace supposed that was a prudent idea. No one in the Dominions would know who Vani was. But Beltan was the son of King Boreas, and Grace had made a bit of a splash at the Council of Kings a year earlier. Their names might be familiar, even here in the hinterlands of Embarr. And everyone in Falengarth knew who Falken Blackhand was. It was best to stay under cover, and if Elwarrd was in any way suspicious of them or their story, he didn’t show it.

  “My lord,” Grace said when Falken finished, “did any other survivors of the shipwreck find their way to your keep? We thought we saw footprints other than our own on the beach, but we couldn’t be sure.”

  Elwarrd’s green eyes were solemn. “You’re the only ones to knock on my door, my lady. And the trail by which you came is the only way off the beach. Surely if there were others, they would have seen the keep and come here. I’m afraid it appears you four are the only survivors.”

  “Did you see the shipwreck happen?” Vani asked. “If so, you might have seen where others washed ashore.”

  The lord clasped his hands. “There is nowhere else to wash ashore, my lady. Save for the beach below, the coast is nothing but sharp rocks for many leagues in either direction. You’re all quite lucky to have turned up there. And at any rate, no one in the keep witnessed your ship’s demise.”

  “Isn’t this place called Seawatch?” Beltan said. “How did it get that name if you don’t keep a lookout?”

  “We have no need to watch the sea anymore,” Elwarrd said, then stood. “And here is Leweth to tell us your rooms are ready. Once you’ve donned dry clothes, please be so kind as to return here and take supper with me.”

  Leweth led them to a pair of rooms on the third floor of the keep. Falken and Beltan retreated into their chamber, and Grace and Vani into theirs. Leweth said he would return in a half hour’s time, then shut the door.

  The air was slightly musty, but a fire burned in the fireplace, giving off a sweet fragrance; it must have been laid with fruit-wood. The bed—which stood a full five feet off the floor—was covered with fresh linens, and on a stand was a basin of hot water, a bowl of dried lavender flowers, and a bar of fatty soap. Draped over a pair of chairs were two gowns. From what Grace knew of Eldhish fashions (which wasn’t much) the style of the garments was long out-of-date, and they were a bit on the small side. All the same, they were clean and not soaked with seawater, and that made them inviting.

  The women washed themselves and changed clothes, and soon they were far drier and warmer than before. Grace managed to tug the worst of the snarls from her hair with an ivory comb, and she hung her wet clothes over one of the chairs, positioning it close to the fire. Vani rolled her leathers into a tight ball and placed them in a corner away from the fire.

  “I must clean them while they are still damp, then oil them as they dry,” the Mournish woman explained. “Otherwise, they’ll be ruined.”

  It was both strange and pleasant seeing Vani in a gown. Grace often forgot how beautiful the T’gol was. Her usual garb accentuated the angularity of her features, as did her short hair. But the gown revealed a softer, rounder figure than Grace might have guessed.

  Vani scowled. “This garment is both impractical and strange. Did I fasten it incorrectly?”

  Grace smiled. “No, it’s perfect.” She drew closer to the fire, soaking in more of the heat. “What do you think Lord Elwarrd meant?”

  Vani started to move across the room, tripped on the hem of her gown, and sat in a chair—
quite by accident given the surprise on her face. “What do you mean?” the T’gol said.

  “He said they don’t watch the sea anymore. Which means they used to keep watch. So something must have changed. But what?”

  Before Vani could answer, a knock came at the door, and faster than Grace could follow with her eyes, Vani left the chair and opened the door. Apparently the gown was no hindrance to the assassin when she wasn’t concentrating on it.

  It was Leweth. Supper was ready.

  Beltan and Falken were already in the hall by the time they arrived. The two men were dressed in borrowed tunics, and the bard’s right hand was completely wrapped in bandages; he must have told the earl he had been injured in the shipwreck. It was a good disguise. Elwarrd bowed low as they entered. Grace saw him take in Vani’s new attire, but his gaze returned to Grace almost at once. She looked away and pretended counting the columns in the hall was a task of the utmost urgency.

  The steward showed them to their seats at the trestle table that had been set up in the center of the hall in their absence. Elwarrd sat at the head of the table, with Grace around the corner to his right. Vani and the steward sat to Grace’s right, and Falken and Beltan sat across the table from them. But that left one empty place at the table, to the earl’s left and opposite Grace. The place was set with a cup, a knife, and a trencher, all carefully arranged. Who was to sit there?

  Before Grace could wonder more, servants entered the hall bearing steaming platters and bowls, and she soon forgot all other concerns in the act of stuffing food into her face. She was more ravenous than she had ever been in her life. It was the exertion, of course: struggling through the water, dragging herself across the beach, climbing up the bluff. It seemed horrible she should eat when Captain Magard and his crew were most likely drowned. However, she was still alive, and her body craved nourishment. While she couldn’t yet say she fully enjoyed medieval cuisine, she had gotten used to it, and an array of meats, puddings, and unidentifiable objects swimming in cream soon found their way into her belly.

  In Calavere, Grace had learned that custom dictated that a lord and a lady share a cup at table. When the earl indicated his thirst, it was Grace’s duty to pour wine, wipe the rim of the cup with a napkin, and hand it to him. She tried not to notice how his warm hand brushed hers in the exchange. When he handed back the cup, she gulped down several swallows, belatedly realizing she was supposed to wipe the rim again. He seemed to notice this lack, but he only raised an eyebrow, and his expression seemed anything but displeased.

  Vani shared a cup with the steward, but since there was no lady to serve them, Beltan and Falken got their own cups. The party ate largely in silence, commenting only on the quality of the food. When the meal was finished, the earl initiated conversation, although they stayed close to polite topics—mostly the weather in Embarr compared to that in the south—and for that Grace was grateful. The earl seemed glad for their company, and he laughed often, a sound Grace found compelling.

  “Forgive me if I offend, my lord,” Falken said. “But I’m surprised to see so few at your table. Should not a keep of this consequence have a larger household?” The bard’s gaze lingered on the empty place setting for a moment.

  “Indeed, it should,” Elwarrd said, a grimness stealing into his expression. “These days, my court is all but gone.”

  “Gone where, my lord?” Grace asked without thinking.

  “To Barrsunder, my lady, by order of King Sorrin.”

  “And how is the king?” Falken said. His words were measured and carefully weighted, and Grace understood his intent.

  So did Elwarrd. “I see you know something of King Sorrin’s condition.”

  “A little,” Falken said. “It’s been nearly a year since I last saw him.”

  The earl sighed. “Then his condition is far more dire than you remember. They say he’ll do anything to keep death at bay.”

  “Why?” Vani said. “Is this king of yours ill?”

  Elwarrd met her gaze. “Not in body, my lady.”

  Grace remembered meeting the King of Embarr at the Council the previous Midwinter. Sorrin had been gaunt and hunched, old before his years. His gaze had usually been keen as a knife, but sometimes a lost and haunted look had stolen into it. Durge had told her that Sorrin had been growing increasingly fearful of his own death, as if it lurked just over his shoulder.

  “Sorrin’s actions are a mystery to his subjects these days,” Elwarrd said. “But he is not mad. Or at least, not mad in all regards, for he’s surrounded himself with a loyal faction of powerful men, and any who might question the king are afraid to stand against them.”

  Beltan refilled his own wine cup. “But for what reason did he call your courtiers to Barrsunder?”

  “For protection,” Elwarrd said. “By the reports I’ve heard, he’s taken to disguising himself as a common man in an effort to hide from death. He believes that having more people in Castle Barrsunder will somehow help him. It makes no sense.”

  Grace circled the wine cup with her hands. “No, it’s completely logical. He’s afraid he’s being hunted, so he’s hiding himself in a crowd. It’s highly adaptive behavior. It’s called the selfish herd theory, and biologists on—” Realizing she was about to bring up things she really didn’t want to try explaining, she hastily took a sip of wine.

  “So you have no one left in your court?” Falken said.

  “Just myself, Leweth, and the servants. And there are the serfs who work my lands. You’ll not have seen the village coming from the beach. It lies just over the next rise. But no one else is left in Seawatch. All of my knights have gone to Barrsunder, and their wives and children with them.”

  “Couldn’t they have refused?” Vani asked.

  Elwarrd gave her a stern look. “To refuse the order of the king is treason, my lady, punishable by death. Sorrin has ordered all of his knights to Embarr. Any who have not yet gone to him have either already been drawn and quartered or will be the next time they set foot in Embarr.”

  His words sickened Grace, and she wished she hadn’t eaten so much.

  “But what of you, my lord?” Falken said. “Why have you not traveled to Barrsunder with the other knights?”

  For the first time that evening, a crack showed in Elwarrd’s demeanor. His right hand twitched into a fist on the table. “I am an earl, my lord. That is my birthright.” It seemed his gaze flicked upward, toward the gallery above the hall. Then he looked directly at Falken. “But knighthood is an honor granted by the king, and I am not a knight of Embarr. That is the only reason I am still here in Seawatch. Otherwise, you would have found this keep empty.”

  They stared at the lord in silence. Slowly, as if only by great will, Elwarrd unclenched his hand.

  “You must be weary after your travails,” he said, his voice gentler. “Leweth will take you to your chambers now.”

  And with that, supper was over. The travelers rose, bowed and curtsied, and murmured their thanks to the earl. Leweth bid them to follow him to their rooms.

  As they left the hall, Grace stole a glance at the gallery, where it seemed Elwarrd had gazed a moment ago. The gallery was a railed wooden platform above the hall. During feasts, minstrels might sit there to fill the hall with music, but now the gallery was silent, filled only with shadows.

  One of those shadows moved.

  Grace’s heart leaped into her throat. It seemed a figure moved in the dimness of the gallery, a figure draped all in black. She started to reach out with the Touch, to sense if someone—or something—was there. However, Leweth gently touched her elbow, guiding her through the doors of the hall, and the threads of the spell slipped through her hand.

  23.

  By the next morning, all of them had a fever.

  Beltan was the worst. Falken knocked on the door of Grace and Vani’s chamber just after dawn. He described the knight’s symptoms, and at once Grace marched to the room shared by the men, still clad in her nightgown. Beltan lay in his
bed, cheeks flushed, skin dewy with sweat.

  “I’m fine,” he said, when Grace began to examine him, but the credibility of his protest was significantly damaged by the fit of coughing the words induced.

  Grace sat Beltan up, lifted his tunic, and listened against his back while he breathed. She laid him down again, then reached out with the Touch, using the power of the Weirding to gaze deep into the knight’s body. What she saw confirmed her diagnosis.

  Grace opened her eyes. “You’ve developed a slight secondary infection in your bronchi—that’s the source of your fever— and the inflammation is causing you to cough.”

  Beltan stared at her without comprehension. Not that this should surprise her. No one on Eldh knew what a bacterium was, and Grace had never had a chance to discuss the finer points of modern medicine with her friends.

  “There’s a sickness in your lungs,” she said, this time trying to use terms the knight would understand. “It’s common after inhaling water, like we all did yesterday. And right now it’s not a major worry. But if you don’t rest, the sickness could grow worse and cause your lungs to fill up with fluid, making it hard to breathe.”

  Beltan grunted. “You mean wet lung. Why didn’t you just say so, Grace? No wonder it feels like a horse is sitting on my chest.” He lay back down.

  “You’re going to have to take it easy,” Grace said. “I’ll try to see if I can make some medicines. In the meantime, you shouldn’t exert yourself. And at no time should you go outside. The cold will aggravate your lungs.”

  Falken glanced at her. “For how long?”

  Grace understood his meaning. The bard was anxious to continue their journey north. However, Grace knew they couldn’t rush this. Hurrying to Toringarth wouldn’t accomplish much if they all died of pneumonia on the way.

  “Until he’s better,” she said. “I’d say a week at most. As long as he stays quiet.”

  Falken’s look was grim, but he nodded. It was over a month until Midwinter; they had plenty of time to get to Toringarth and then to the Black Tower. Or at least they could hope so.