In a Time of Treason

by David Keck

  “It is the story,” Durand affirmed.

  “The duke was a good Atthian; he told the thing to go to Hell.”

  “Ah,” said Ouen, “a diplomat, was he?”

  The skald shrugged eloquently, allowing all possibilities. “He had his old Isle Kingdom blade—and a bad mood—on him.”

  The guards were filing off the parapet. On the quay, the battered crowd was thinning.

  Lamoric got to his feet, catching a breath. “There’s no time. We’ll get him in the street.”

  Coensar nodded, ordering the men to help get Lamoric through the crowd.

  As they slipped on the blood and muck before the giant gatehouse, Ouen caught Heremund’s shoulder.

  “What did the big bugger do about it?” asked Ouen. “When the old duke told him?”

  “Not a thing,” said Heremund.

  “What?” Badan said.

  “Gunderic had that old blade. But—see that bull up there?” He pointed at a bull’s head thrusting from the keystone of the arch six fathoms above. “Ever since they built the walls, anyone going through this gate—the Fey Gates—alone, especially at dawn and dusk, or at night, they’d meet a big black dog. Or calf. Or a man with bull’s shanks. Or a calf-eared giant, hunkered under the gate like a man trying to crawl through a barrel. The buggane.”

  “This is a good one,” said Berchard.

  “And those are folk who managed to get away,” the skald added.

  Badan winced, shoving a finger back toward the water, where the great bodies drifted. “So, is all that tribute, or are they making fun?”

  “Depends who’s listening,” Heremund answered.

  For an instant, there was no one under the old gates but Lamoric and his men. Ouen flashed his gold teeth.

  LAMORIC WAS ON the march.

  People mobbed the streets of Acconel. The bull drive was the real start of the city’s year. Townsfolk threw their shutters wide and filled the streets; a fair heaped goods in the markets from leagues around. There was even a good big tournament at the castle.

  “There!” said Lamoric.

  Beyond the end of Lamoric’s finger, the duke’s banners swayed between the shop signs and leaning upper floors. Lamoric’s men put their shoulders to work, getting their master closer. They jostled jugglers, skalds, and clowns. Puppeteers took their wicker stages in their hands. Badan barked laughter as one man on towering stilts reeled past, grabbing shutters as he flattened himself against the upper stories of a shop.

  At their feet, priests collected anyone who’d let a bull toss them. Bodies and blood drew packs of awestruck children.

  Heremund elbowed his way to Durand’s hip. “You were at Acconel, yes?” There were broken limbs and shattered bodies every dozen paces.

  “We did it every year: shield-bearers and some of the older pages,” Durand confessed.

  They fought just to keep up with Lamoric.

  “You’re mad,” said Badan. “The whole lot of you. Atthians feeding bulls to the lake.”

  “That’s it, likely,” declared Heremund, waving at the crowd. “It’s not Atthians. These are the same folk who bribed the old bugger before they’d heard of the Atthias. You Sons of Atthi are just skin on a very old stew.”

  Durand smiled. “There was a lot of drinking.”

  A broke-nosed face in the crowd sneered at Durand, and Durand put his hand on a shoulder without looking. Suddenly, that hand was upside down and in a twist. He felt like he’d stuck his arm in a mill.

  “You’re all wet,” said a familiar voice. The big knobby face looking down on him was Geridon the Champion’s. With a cracked-pearl grin, he let Durand free. “Don’t think I didn’t see you coming. Not for a heartbeat.”

  Durand smiled, and Lamoric slid past him, dropping to one knee before the old duke and the other members of his family. Abravanal stooped under his coat of iron and ducal crown. At his shoulder was Landast: an older, more solemn Lamoric with a mane of syrup-blond hair.

  “Father, brother,” Lamoric said.

  Durand and a few others in the front row knelt as well. As he went down, he spotted old Sir Kieren, looking as he had through all the years Durand served him.

  “Lamoric!” old Abravanal gasped. “By the King of Heaven.” Wisps of white hair curled from under the chain hood he wore. His eyes were an impossible blue. “Lady Deorwen.”

  Deorwen’s look was stricken.

  “We have just returned, Father,” Lamoric said.

  “You have carried my fealty to our king?”

  “Father, Ragnal has—”

  A child darted from the front of Abravanal’s party, several steps ahead of Landast’s wife. The girl’s hair was a long brush of ink. This was Almora, youngest of Abravanal’s children.

  “Lamoric!” She struck Lamoric’s shoulder, swinging tiny arms around him. He had to plant a hand in the muck to keep from capsizing.

  “Mora,” he said, and, after a moment’s hesitation: “I think you’ve grown again.”

  She tucked her chin. “I have. I have grown. And you never come. I have a horse of my own now. He is brown and he is called Star.” She had his hand, and was tugging her much older brother to his feet. “You’re soaking. Were you playing at the mere?”

  Landast’s wife, a fine, tall woman called Lady Adelind of Garelyn, touched Almora’s shoulder. “Almora, I think you will find that a duke’s daughter does not roll in the street.” Adelind, herself a duke’s daughter, smiled at Lamoric with an eyebrow cocked. “Lamoric has something to tell your father, I think?”

  Duke Abravanal tottered between them under his hauberk and crown. “Up, up!” he said, giving Lamoric his hand. “We will speak during the feast. And poor Deorwen must have dry clothes. What would your father say of me?”

  “Yes, Father,” was everyone’s answer, and they continued their progress toward the white citadel.

  Landast stalked alongside Lamoric, his brow clouded. “You have returned in haste, I think,” he said. Or you never made the journey, he did not add.

  “If I never hold an oar again, it will be too soon,” Lamoric answered. “But there are—”

  Almora walked nearly backward. “Lamoric? Where is your horse?”

  Lamoric could not be too frustrated. “I have many horses.”

  “The knights who have come for the tournament have many horses. All colors. They are camped in the yard. I’ve only got one,” Almora said. “And he is a great responsibility for a girl my age.” Adelind touched the girl’s shoulder.

  “Brother, I was not sure I left you time to reach Eldinor,” said Landast.

  They had nearly reached the gates of Castle Acconel where the throng of knights and wellborn guests would be waiting to receive the duke.

  Lamoric scowled. “My timing couldn’t have been better. If I had arrived a moment sooner, I would not be here now.”

  Now, Abravanal stopped. “I do not understand?”

  “The oathtaking was a trap, Father. Sons of duchies, loyal and disloyal. The Patriarch of Eldinor himself. King Ragnal has seized them all.”

  The old man’s mouth hung open.

  “We will have to summon the barons,” said Landast. His glance took in father, wife, and sister. “Let’s get inside.”

  As the duke’s procession took the last turn toward the high white gates of the castle, they saw a great blaze of banners and bunting.

  But in the market square before the gates a dark squadron of mounted men blocked their way.

  Bared blades caught the sunset, and leopards curled on shields and surcoats. Every sneering man wore green and crimson. At the vanguard sat Radomor of Yrlac, hunkered like some Power of Hell on the back of a monstrous warhorse. Heaven’s Eye painted his bare skull red, and the whole of Creation seemed to balance around his black stare. He didn’t look like the hero who’d saved the king at Hallow Down.

  “Why have we stopped?” asked Almora. From her vantage point at Adelind’s skirts, Creation was a place of knees and cobblestones. />
  Durand touched the grip of his sword. Every man in Lamoric’s company had done the same. But if Radomor chose to move, not one of them could stop him.

  “Who let them in?” breathed Coensar.

  Big Geridon twisted. “Festival time. I’d’ve had the gates shut tight, me, but who listens to old soldiers?” His grin was quick and crooked.

  Tack jingled. Somewhere a sole turned on the cobbles.

  Durand remembered the hall of Ferangore. He thought of how he’d stopped this man at Tern Gyre. He sniffed a hard breath through his nostrils.

  “My lords and ladies of Gireth,” the duke’s voice rumbled.

  Landast stepped out into the silence, Geridon catching his shoulder before he could go too far.

  “What do you wish with us, Radomor?”

  Radomor’s head tilted a degree or two.

  “The tournament,” he said.

  “Lord Radomor, I would have thought you’d had enough of those. Word of what happened at Tern Gyre has reached us.”

  The duke made no move, simply staring back with his black eyes.

  “Gireth’s appearance at Tern Gyre and your kinsman’s role on that day stand out in my memory. So I have come. You must allow me to take part.”

  They had spoiled his tournament, so now he would spoil theirs.

  “I will not stop you,” said Landast.

  “There is one thing more. . . .” Radomor rumbled.

  “Name it,” said Landast.

  “Landast, son of Abravanal, I would face you in the lists. Fight me and learn who is the better man.”

  Landast’s hands opened in the stillness. Durand had some sense that Landast could handle himself, but few could stand against Radomor of Yrlac. Yet a challenge had been made, and there were many eyes on Landast: knights from across the realm, townspeople, family.

  “I do not fight in tournaments,” he said.

  Durand’s own mouth opened, and he heard gasps all around. A man does not lightly refuse a challenge.

  Horses fussed. Durand heard the creak of his gauntlets, leather caught in Radomor’s fists. And the light dimmed—as though the duke’s fury could squeeze light from the air. “You refuse me?” he whispered.

  “Lord Radomor, you may depart if I have disappointed you beyond bearing. If you choose to remain, there is space enough for you and your men in the outer ward.”

  Radomor grimaced in disgust.

  It was then that Durand noticed the two black Rooks, grinning in the shadows at the roadside. One waved Durand’s way, and bobbed his eyebrows.

  THEY PASSED THROUGH the pale gates and into the castle’s outer courtyard when Radomor stood aside. And the smothering mass of their guests filed silently in behind them. The pavilions littered over the lawn under the walls looked like the aftermath of a ruined celebration.

  The duke stumbled along as if tugged on a string. Lamoric’s eyes darted, hardly leaving the ground—never settling on his brother. Almora tried to skip: her brother had come, there were knights and dashing ladies, the outer yard was full of horses, but Durand watched as she gave it up.

  Radomor followed. As Abravanal’s party passed through the inner gates and into the shadow of Gunderic’s Tower, a few of Radomor’s company peeled off to stake their tents among the others.

  The petals of a thousand snowdrops lay heaped in baskets, unthrown. Priests ushered a choir of children from the door to the Great Hall, their songs unsung. Heaven’s Eye set beyond the city.

  13. Discretion’s Cost

  Trumpets rang, Abravanal flinched, and the procession filed into the candlelit splendor of the Painted Hall: the feasting hall of Gunderic’s Tower. Tabor, shawm, and bagpipe played them in.

  “How can you?” whispered Lamoric.

  Landast was shepherding his wife and little sister. He ducked close. “I am a lord of this realm, not some vagabond tourney fighter.”

  “Not me, then,” said Lamoric.

  Landast shut his mouth a moment, helping Almora up the step to the high table. He whispered, “This man’s bluster and my pride will not cause me to forget my duty.”

  Durand could not hear the rest of what passed between them. He and the remainder of Lamoric’s soggy band weren’t destined for the high table. A bowing, balding serving man led them past the long rows of benches to the lower end of the hall and a few spare places by the service doors.

  Heremund and Ouen sat on either side.

  “Do you suppose all this is because I said that everything the boy did must come to nothing,” said Heremund.

  “What?” said Ouen.

  “At Radomor’s cradle. I should have kept my mouth shut.” The little skald rubbed his chin.

  “But this move’s a puzzle. He’ll have heard about the king’s trick, I reckon. Most of the Great Council will by now. There might even be riders in the road already. There’ll be talk. And here’s Radomor in Gireth, playing the clown.”

  Last of the wellborn, Radomor and his henchmen strode into the Painted Hall, passing the high table before finding their way down the far aisle, Radomor grim and hunched as a bull. His Rooks grinned.

  “What’s his game, eh?” said Heremund.

  Fresh paint slathered every surface in the long hall. Great swags of cloth hung where trophies, shields, and sconces had been fixed to the stone. High in the crossing vaults overhead, bosses and keystones glinted with gold and firelight. The arms of dead lineages and crusading heroes snarled from their old places. Durand had slept under these ceilings many thousand times.

  “Rado makes this challenge, what follows?” wondered Heremund.

  When the whole company—two hundred knights-at-arms—stood at their benches, serving men with rods laid table linens, and carried ewers and towels for the washing of hands.

  “Landast accepts. Radomor thrashes him like an ugly stepchild, maybe. Maybe kills him.” Someone planted a slopping ewer on the table. “Thanks, lad,” Heremund said, splashing his hands in the water. “Right there, he’s knocked the hand off Gireth’s tiller. A staunch ally of the king, adrift. Good.”

  Up the hall, the green of Yrlac’s livery blotted the long table. His whole retinue aped their master’s arms; the two preening Rooks the only exceptions.

  “Landast says ‘no,’ “ Heremund continued, “how’s he stand with the peers then, eh? How’s he look to those who’d follow him? Not good. Not strong. It’s a sharp bit of politics, this challenge.”

  The music stopped. At the top of the hall, someone was standing. Tall in bright robes of gold and samite, the Patriarch of Acconel swept the room with his sea eagle’s gaze. His beard shone like a sheet of silver.

  Heremund narrowed one eye. “Let’s see what old Father Oredgar has to say to these new guests, eh?”

  The Patriarch filled his lungs. “Peers of Errest. Lords, ladies, and serving men. Sons and Daughters of Atthi, hear one who knows the power of Heaven’s King.

  “At the word of his Creator, Saerdan Voyager ordered ships built in numbers great enough to carry all who would follow him from the shattered Isle Kingdom. His own vessel he named Cradle, and he had his Hazelwood Throne set within it. As the Host of Heaven bid him, he set sail and steered for the dawn.”

  One of Radomor’s henchmen cleared his throat. Durand caught sneers around the grim duke.

  And the Patriarch turned his piercing gaze on the men of Yrlac. He reached with one long-fingered hand. On the table before the Patriarch glinted the saltcellar nef of the House of Gunderic: a castled ship in precious metals to bear the duke’s salt.

  He snatched the rattling thing from the linen.

  “But the Westering Sea is broad, and the Cradle sailed for many days. It is said that our Sons of Atthi knew thirst. Some despaired of reaching the far havens, their masters turning back for the sunset. Days became weeks. The last crumbs were eaten and the dregs drunk. Some men felt they had been misled, that Saerdan Voyager had gone mad in the wars behind him. More ships fell away—now long past reaching home. But then, at
last, when the fortieth dawn rose before them, the Cradle’s watch sighted Wave’s Ending.”

  The model ship gleamed above two hundred knights-at-arms, and at last the old man clanked the thing on the table before Abravanal.

  “Saerdan was Heaven’s anointed. The king. We are the scions of the faithful. Our blood is their blood. What became of those who heeded their own diverse masters and turned back upon the Westering Sea, lost upon the deep? What became of those who scattered at the first pangs of hunger? They are lost still. They hunger always.”

  The men bowed their heads, while the Patriarch stared down on them all.

  “Praised be the Silent King of Heaven and the dread Powers of His Host,” he said.

  Though the company murmured their assent; not one looked Radomor’s way. Soon, the procession of platters began.

  Durand picked bits and pieces from the carvers’ knives. Trenchers were set before him and whisked away. Mostly, he watched Radomor; the man sat like some fiend’s idol. Knives clinked, but only Radomor’s men spoke. Their every sneer and grunt sent ripples through the stillness. At the upper end of the hall, he could make out little Almora. Lady Adelind was helping the girl to cut, counseling her to eat with fingertips, Landast nodding to her questions, more parents than siblings.

  The world beyond the castle sank into darkness, and soon the constellation of candles was the only light in the hall.

  “What’s this now?” demanded Heremund.

  Down the lower table, one of Radomor’s Rooks raised his head with an absentminded sigh. Over yards of empty table, a reek filled Durand’s mouth as though he had bitten into something hot and putrid.

  The Rook hopped to his feet in a flutter of candlelight.

  “Atthians,” said the Rook, cup raised. “Scions of Saerdan Voyager. Knights of Errest.” His gaze danced over the silent faces staring back. “We are reaching the end of a fine meal. I wish to propose a toast. There are many brave men among you. His Grace, the Duke of Yrlac, will be pleased to fight beside you when the Eye of Heaven rises above these ancient towers. But some of you have been muttering, sitting in a gossip’s judgment on one of your peers.” He gestured with his goblet. “Is it not better to ask our questions? To cease our whispering? Landast of Gireth—setting aside base cowardice—could you explain why you will not test yourself against my master?”