“My God,” I said. It was every bit as impressive as I'd imagined. Only Yazizi shared my wonder, though. The others had seen it all before, and they looked like a string of convicts marching to the gallows.
The woman's frown deepened. She flicked the reins of her horse to make it speed up. “Come. There's a man with a crown on his head waiting for me, and I'm going to be very cross with him.”
Down in the Cross proper, the nice houses and fine shops all ran into one. Only two things made a lasting impression on me. One, the cobbles were fantastically smooth. Two, it was the only place I'd seen in weeks with an abundance of men of military age. Money really was wonderful.
Our climb up the Twins was quick and easy, despite the long line of people trying to get into Winter Court. They moved aside the moment they caught a whiff of the Rangers. Descard and his men walked tall here, and the townsfolk treated them like demi-gods. Few units were as celebrated as the Household Rangers. Except the Angian Guard, of course.
The gate guards saluted as we crossed the drawbridge into the castle. Up close, I could admire even more of its defences. A dry moat filled with stakes ran all around the outer wall. The palatial keep in the middle just seemed to get taller as we followed the snaking road between walls. Several smaller gatehouses forced us to slow down and drive the carts carefully. They served to split the outer courtyard into individual sections, each one a potential death-trap for the enemy. I shuddered at the idea of getting caught between two of those heavy portcullises, together with a hundred other buggers on the verge of panic, stones and arrows and boiling pitch raining down all around me.
No one in history had ever tried to storm Winter Court, and now I knew why.
In the inner courtyard, a small work crew was carving fresh granite and slapping down mortar. More bombard platforms. The guns themselves, great lumps of cast bronze like squat church-bells, sat in a corner under a protective sheet of canvas. I had to wonder if King Lauric really thought they were necessary.
A smartly-dressed steward waited for us at the entrance to the inner courtyard. A whole train of stewards, I soon realised, all in Royal white and gold. There were multiple servants for everyone, less the lowborn Rangers, taking our baggage and leading the horses. Even Yazizi had someone to look after her. I let two of the chaps carry everything except my breastplate and Adar's sword. My sword. I stared at the polished hilt and swallowed. It was his, but he was dead now.
How old had he been? Ten? Twelve? Not old enough.
I accepted a flask from one of the stewards, but it turned out to be water. I grimaced. “Got anything stronger?”
“I shall have some brought to you,” he said. “Please follow me to your chambers.”
The cart stopped, and I made my first attempt at standing up since we left Grimsfield. It proved more of a challenge than I thought. My legs were like jelly. One of the stewards caught me just before I fell, and with the help of another man, I managed to stagger into the keep.
The Ivory Tower was even more palatial on the inside. Here in Kingsport, stained glass was not merely a privilege of chapels and churches. High windows poured light in from the outside, turning the walls into a multi-coloured spectacle. Everything was wood-panelled or rendered in delicate stucco. The floors, varnished to a mirror shine, supported exotic patterned carpets from Leora and across the sea. Everywhere I looked I saw the Royal crown and gryphon ‒ on banners, in sculptures and reliefs. Even the torch sconces were cast in the shape of eagle heads and lion's paws.
And to think, this was only a side entrance. I tried to catch further glimpses of the rooms and decorations while the stewards guided me upstairs.
At the end of another carpeted hall, a number of rooms had been made available, each one bigger than the last. Whole families could've been comfortable living in the cupboards. I was lowered into a chair while a bunch of servant girls prepared a bath for me. A plush chair, with cushions and everything. Oh yes.
Looking at my mostly naked self, I seemed even worse than when we set off from Grimsfield. My bruises had had time to develop into big yellow-purple blotches, while my scabs were black and evil. They'd make good scars.
After a while, the girls helped me into the steaming brass tub. The water was so hot it felt like it would boil my skin off. They washed me with sponges, scrapers and oil. As promised, another girl came by to deliver a cup and a big pitcher of wine.
It was heaven. I managed about four cups before I passed out from sheer contentment.
I awoke when my head slipped under. I clawed my way back to the surface of the bath and spat up water. A young serving girl, the only one who had stayed behind, rushed in to help me. She took my arm and supported my attempts to stand up.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
She lowered her eyes. “It is my duty, Lord.”
“'Lord'? Oh, no no no. That's a few steps too far.” I stepped out of the tub, swaying. “My name is Byren.”
My nap couldn't have lasted more than an hour, but it felt like the morning after a bar brawl. The wash hadn't done much for my appearance either. Scrubbing off the coat of grime just revealed more of the battering I'd taken over the last few weeks.
The girl brought me to the bed. There she rubbed me down with a cloth, except the parts I insisted on doing myself. She laid out expensive clothes, an ivory-handled razor and brush, even perfume. Eyes down, she waited for further instructions. She couldn't have been older than fifteen, sixteen at the outside.
The awkward silence was too much to bear. “You'll have to forgive me,” I said, “this is my first time having a servant. Walk me through it.”
Big brown eyes snapped back to me, frightened and confused. “L-Lord?”
“Byren,” I sighed. “Let's start with your name, and something to get me decent. Smallclothes.” I followed her gaze to the neatly-folded pile of white linen beside me. “I'd put them on myself, but I'm not sure I can.”
She bit her lip and knelt to get the hose over my feet. Rich black hair tumbled down her shoulders, so dark I might've pegged her for Harari from a distance. Something in the shape of her eyes, too... Probably the half-breed daughter of a slave. She wouldn't be the first.
“I am Halla,” she said in a tiny voice. Her fingertips lingered on some of my bruises. “Were you‒ Were you in battle?”
“Yes. I suppose I was.”
Our combined efforts got me into some hose, putting at least one layer of fabric between me and the world at large. Next came a shirt and doublet. Black velvet and lace, trimmed in silver and red. I'd never worn anything so fine, except maybe once, when a certain lady had me trying on some of her husband's clothes for a laugh.
Now that was a memory. Drunk as a wheelbarrow, two sets of wine-fogged eyes looking into one another, both of us beginning to wonder how I'd look in her husband's sheets.
A small silver mirror showed me how I looked now. Strange. Expensive stuff never seemed to fit me the way leather and maille did. Still, Halla gave a satisfied nod and took up the razor. Despite her nervousness, her hands were steady. A few quick scrapes took away the weeks of travel-growth until there was nothing left but bare skin.
Before I could object, she slapped my cheeks with stinging perfume. It smelled heavy and cloyingly sweet, like an over-ripe fruit. She assured me it was the highest fashion at court.
“Thanks,” I muttered again. “Halla, there was a woman with our party. The King's sister. Do you know where she is?”
Halla swallowed. “She... His Majesty summoned her, Lord.”
“It's Byren. Not Lord Byren, not Sir Byren, not any of those. Where did he summon her?”
“To His Majesty's study, Lord.”
“Fantastic. If anyone needs me, that's where I'll be.” I stood up, and she scurried back to get out of my way. Someone had thoughtfully left a walking stick by the door. I took it and strode out, trying to look like I didn't hurt so much. Then I called back, “Which way?”
I set off in the direction Halla pointed.
The metal tip of my cane thumped over and over against the wooden floors. Amplified beyond loudness by the empty, lifeless halls, it bounced for what seemed like miles in every direction.
I never expected the Royal palace to be this... quiet. Every now and again someone would pass me by in the stairs and hallways, some steward or servant or soldier, but I could count their number on my fingers. I guessed that much of the Kingsport garrison had been thrown into the field in pursuit of the Duke. Bold move on Lauric's part. Risky.
I conquered one last staircase and emerged panting at the top, beads of sweat on my forehead. I wiped at it with the back of my hand. Then onward, up the blue and gold-threaded carpet to the very end of the hall.
A pair of dutiful-looking soldiers stood there, straight of spine and thick of arm, and kept their halberds rigidly erect. They guarded a carved mahogany door covered from top to bottom in Royal gryphons. The winged eagle-lions were engaged in all the activities you might expect of eagle-lions. Flying, fighting, and striking majestic poses.
I greeted the guards. “Hullo, lads. I'm with Lady Ioanna's party. She's expecting me.”
It was only a tiny lie, and went over well. Rumours in Kingsport travelled faster than bird shit. By now everybody in the city knew my face, and if I wasn't as welcome as I pretended, well, they could come to my hanging.
A thrill of excitement crept up my spine as the doors opened for me. I'd met King Lauric once, when I was sworn into the Angian Guard. I remembered every moment, better than my father's funeral or my first time with a woman. Every word of the ritual vow. He came down from the dais and touched us on the shoulder, one by one. He looked into my eyes as if he'd always known me. Would he recognise me now?
No, of course not. What a stupid thing to think. He was the King. He'd be better acquainted with the contents of his pocket handkerchief.
The study was divided into two areas. An outer library stacked high with books, and a hexagonal inner chamber walled in carved stone and glass, which basked in daylight from a great round oculus in the ceiling. The inner chamber seemed to be the important space. It had chairs, maps, and a huge table to go with them.
Voices rang from the chamber. No one had noticed me, so I got closer and caught a few glimpses through the yellow glass. I saw King Lauric and the woman face off against each other. Another man ‒ Descard d'Ost ‒ waited quietly in the corner. He looked mortified, trying to make himself invisible so they wouldn't drag him into the row.
The King was saying, “‒magine my surprise when Lord Farrow told me. You've always been headstrong, Ioanna, but I never dreamed you'd do something this daft! And then, weeks later, then I receive a messenger from d'Ost!” He threw his hands up in a rage. “Do you have any idea what would happen if you fell into Selcourt's hands?”
“Clearly not, Brother dearest. Why don't you explain it to me? Loudly, and with more arm-waving.”
Her voice cut like a knife. Lauric shot her a withering glance. “Do not take that tone with me, woman.”
“I'll mind my tone when you stop blustering like a jilted lover. You are not Father, and I didn't come here to be lectured as if I were a little girl.”
I praised my decision to stay out of sight. The air between them had more charge than a lightning bolt. They circled each other in the manner of warships preparing another broadside.
Now that I could see them together, the family resemblance was plain as day. They stood almost eye to eye in height. Her hair a touch darker, but only a touch, and her warm features echoed in his. The King's lean, fighting muscle countered some of that softness, while she rounded it out with smooth femininity.
“It's past time you learned that your actions have consequences,” Lauric hissed. “You aren't the only one who ends up paying for your mistakes. You almost put me in a very awkward position.”
“I had things well in hand before your monkey dragged me back here. Every hour you delay me, you make the mission more difficult.”
“Then it's a good thing you're done with it.” He sniffed. “By my command, Ioanna, you will not leave Kingsport until the fighting is over.”
There was a hiss of indrawn breath ‒ not just from her, but Descard and myself as well. Shock and fury blazed in her bright emerald eyes.
“We talked about this, Lauric,” she said sharply. “You can't let this war keep dragging on year after year!”
“The matter is already decided. I have Selcourt's army pinned outside Gallowan. There's nowhere left for him to run. He can either shake hands with my First Army, take up swimming in the Aranic Ocean, or he can die on the walls without enough men to hold them. Come spring, I'll march North to seal my victory, and be done with the whole thing.”
“But my mission‒”
“Your 'mission' is a fool's errand, has always been a fool's errand. I should never have let you go. Getting yourself captured only proves it.”
“A fool is a man who closes his ears to other voices. We have five of the pieces. Five. One more and we'll have everything!”
“And how are you going to get it? Cross the Six Rivers during flood season? Go over the Edge of the World and come back? No. You'll stay, and so will your 'pieces.' They'd serve us better melted down for another bombard, but I'd never hear the end of your nagging.”
Her face went still, and her voice colder than ice. “I overestimated you, Brother dearest.”
“Enough of this. Go.” He dismissed her with a haughty wave. “Confine yourself to your chambers, lest you get any more ideas.”
The woman curtsied woodenly, like a puppet crudely hinged at the waist. The gesture conveyed no respect whatsoever. Finally she gathered her skirts and stormed out. No one had ever stormed with more elegance or dignity.
She snarled aloud, “That insufferable oaf! He wouldn't know judgement or opportunity if he saw them tumbling down his privy!”
Then she spotted me in my eavesdropping. Her heated cheeks flushed even darker, and she dropped her skirts in a cascade of silk. “Byren. You... You realise that spying on royalty is a hanging matter.”
I straightened, held up mostly by my cane. My free hand folded down the collar of my shirt to expose my throat. “At your command, Milady, I'll tie the noose myself.”
“Damn you,” she said without much venom. “You just don't care, do you?”
“I am yours. You have my contract, written in blood.”
“Of course. But,” she leaned in close to me, her lips smiling like red roses in bloom, “that's not why you follow me.”
I swallowed and chose not to reply. Thankfully, a commotion in the King's study saved me from another embarrassing erection.
A messenger entered the inner chamber from the other side of the study. He handed a rolled piece of parchment to Descard and ran full tilt back the way he came. The King snatched it and read it in a hurry.
He let out a howl of pure, primal rage as he tore the parchment into little pieces.
The woman rushed back inside, pulling me along by the wrist. She demanded, “What in God's name is going on? I heard... noise.”
The King spoke slowly, spitting out each word as if they were ash in his mouth. “Selcourt has flown the coop. Seems he took Gallowan in a surprise assault and escaped on one of Barleman's ships.”
“Didn't you tell Barleman to scuttle every boat in the harbour?”
“I did,” he snapped, “but it seems he kept one back. Just in case he needed to cut and run.”
So the Duke was free, and a large chunk of his army squatted safe behind the walls of Gallowan. As military failures went, that one counted as colossal. Descard and I shared a look. A painful mixture of impotent anger and despair was writ large on his face.
“Back to the old lines, then,” the Ranger said bitterly. “Us in the South, them in the North, waiting for another spring.”
The King turned away, leaning over the map table, shaking. He could barely contain himself. The woman laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Lauric, let me go. I can help.”
“No,” he said. Stubborn. Petulant. Childlike. “This is my war, Ioanna. I'll fight it, I'll finish it.”
I couldn't believe it. Before, he'd made good points. Now... Now I saw his real motivations. The image of my noble King crumbled before my eyes.
The woman said nothing as she hooked her arm into mine and escorted me out of the study.
What remained of our group ate together that night, mostly in silence. It was strange to see the others in civilian clothes. No armour, no weapons, no heraldry or uniform. It was our most peaceful get-together in months. Sir Erroll didn't complain or object once, to anything, even Yazizi's presence at the table.
Really, the knight didn't take much notice of anything. He spent the time brooding, gnawing on the Royal kitchen's finest without the slightest hint of pleasure. The servers brought us platters of roast duck, cured pork hocks in gravy, shrimp and mackerel stew, honey-glazed vegetables, baked custard and sweet bramble tarts, and none of it moved him.
Maybe the woman had something to do with it. Ever since we returned from the King's study, she'd refused to leave her chambers. Kept the door locked, wouldn't speak to anyone. Clearly the news hit hard.
I hadn't seen hide nor hair of Descard either, but then, who knew what Rangers did in their spare time?
Aemedd attended the meal, though he barely had the strength to sit upright. He was pale as a corpse and coughed more than he ate. It seemed like his desire to find and study the last bronze piece was the only thing keeping him alive. I wondered if he could last that long, when the stewards practically had to carry him from place to place.
Faro was still at war with himself. Simply being in Kingsport had turned him back into a frightened little boy, nervous eyes looking for a teacher to scold and punish him for every bite of decadent, sinful food.
Yazizi remained unreadable. Her attention rarely wandered from the largesse on the table, yet she barely touched it, picking at a few dishes at most. Odd. She never showed any reluctance about our trail rations.
As for me, my stomach was tired of gruel and syrup and tea. I could have eaten almost anything. I wolfed down plate after plate of rich, delicate, almost magical food. No matter how much I ate, though, the emptiness in the pit of my stomach wouldn't go away. It was sparked by a different kind of hunger.
Written in Blood Page 28