“Do you got a rite-mate?”
“I had one once.”
The child wrinkled her nose. “You don’t got one once. You get ’em forever. That’s what Ma says.” Then her eyes widened, with much the same pleasure as having discovered a secret. She tried to stand up, but found that an adult’s lap didn’t offer much purchase, and she flailed around for a moment before grabbing the front of Erin’s tunic. “Did he die?”
Innocence could be so guileless and so cruel. Erin tousled the tangled mop of brown curls.
“I lost him to a war,” she answered quietly.
“Melissa!”
“Uh, oh.”
Children were born cute for a very good reason.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Talking to Erin.” But Melissa was already old enough to begin the slide off the guest’s lap.
Erin didn’t have time to concur. The doors to the hall flew open so quickly they hardly had time to creak. The child, her conversation, and her annoyed mother were forgotten, as a boy of ten seasons threw himself across the threshold, clutching his sides and drawing deep breaths.
“Bandits! Bandits!”
Lord Coranth started from the table, his face gone suddenly pale. “Where?” he shouted at the young boy, who stood gasping for breath in the doorway.
“East,” was the reply. “East at Hepley’s.”
“Bretnor, get the wagons going! Aeliah—”
Tiras grabbed Lord Coranth by the shoulder.
“Belay that!” he shouted, and Bretnor froze in half step. “How many?”
“I don’t know! We saw them from our farm. Da sent me—he’s arming up with the crossbow.” His eyes, wide and dark, found Lord Coranth. No one had moved. “Are you going to just stand here?”
But Lord Coranth had already shrunk six inches as he followed the hand at his shoulder to meet Tiras’ eyes.
Wordless, he stared as Tiras nodded grimly.
“Boy, were they—did they look as if they were attacking the farms?”
The boy shook his head nervously. “No. Dogs’re setting up a racket, though.” He rabbed the sweat from his forehead with a swish of a night robe. It was simple enough, but it left no doubt that he hadn’t been given time to dress properly.
“Which direction were they headed in?”
“West,” the boy answered promptly.
“Here.”
“Hildy,” Erin said, her voice hard and quick. “Get Hamin and the others.”
Hildy nodded and trundled out of the dining room, sidestepping the messenger of such ill news.
“Darin?”
“Ready.”
“Bretnor, Aeliah—weapons. Get the house staff who know how to use them.”
Aeliah nodded tensely and left at a run.
“This—this is it, then.” Lord Coranth put both hands on the table.
“My fault,” Tiras answered shortly. “I was certain we’d have more time.”
“Let’s assign blame later.” Erin had already unfurled the map; two tea mugs and a beer stein held three corners down, the fourth curled forlornly. “Where is Hepley’s farm?”
Taril was the name of the boy who had been sent with word of the bandits. Taril, Harper’s son. He sat at the edge of the table, his hands beneath his legs, his face white. He’d run all this way in bare feet, but he didn’t seem to notice it.
Indeed, he noticed little of his surroundings; only the words of battle and death seemed to catch and hold his attention. For his father, and his two elder brothers, were even now preparing to defend their land. Ma hadn’t been happy about that; Susan and Cherylin had gone with her, but he wasn’t sure where; they’d left in a hurry.
He’d never seen a map before in his life, but he was quick, and if couldn’t read the words in the small, square boxes, he could understand what they meant.
He started once when the men began to enter the hall, dressed in fine links of chain, and carrying swords. Only the lord carried one openly, but never had he seen it drawn. Men only carried drawn weapons for a reason.
There were a lot of them, and Taril recognized only three. Raul, Bretnor, and Kaanis. It was to Bretnor that he turned his white, desperate face.
“Tar,” Bretnor said, reaching out with one hand. His face was tight and drawn; anger shone from the surface of his dark eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“But what about—what about Da?”
Bretnor looked away.
“We can’t just stand here talking—we gotta go!”
Tiras turned a grim stare in Taril’s direction, and the boy suddenly sprung up, knocking his chair aside. The worst of his nightmares, undreamed of until this moment, had just come true.
“If you won’t help ’em, I will!” he shouted, lunging for the closed doors.
Darin caught him. Darin, with Bethany upright in one hand, and the other empty and shaking. He was only slightly taller than Taril, but not so wide; nor did his muscle speak of the fields of farmers and the way they labored over them. Still, he barred the way to the door with determination.
“They’ll die!” Taril shouted, barely stopping himself.
Darin brought Bethany around in a tight, decisive arc. The staff hit Taril just below the right shoulder, and a light that only Darin and Erin could see leaped from it to encircle the boy.
“I don’t want them to die. I have to help.”
“We’ll help,” Darin said quietly.
The tears started then. Darin took care to keep Bethany in contact with the younger boy as he himself drew closer. “These men,” he said, pointing at Hamin and Hildy’s caravan guards, “are armed and well trained. They’ve come to help the village.”
It was hard just to say the simple words, for Darin knew exactly what Taril was feeling. Who better to know it? By a night like this one, in the Dark Lord’s shadow, Culverne had fallen. No warning had been given of the treachery that had opened the gates to Marantine’s deadliest foes.
But he wasn’t a boy anymore, and this village was not so helpless, so friendless. He was Darin, patriarch of Culverne. And if the enemy chose fire as a weapon, he would take his fire against them to save the village. And to quiet the memories that rose now, like acrid smoke, to sting his eyes.
“It isn’t your parents I’d worry about, boy,” a new voice said.
Darin looked over Taril’s shoulders and met Corfaire’s eyes. There was a smile in them, one harder and colder than the steel he held.
“Those men aren’t worried about farmers.”
“Enough, Corfaire,” Hamin said. “We’ve no time.”
Corfaire shrugged, the motion both economical and elegant. “The armory, then?”
“All of us.” Hamin shook his head wearily. “There’s not enough light, and not nearly enough window cover, but at least there are only two entrances. Erin?”
“The front.” She unsheathed her sword and held it a moment aloft, gazing down the ancient blade at a play of light that held too much meaning for her.
“Tiras?”
“Back, then. I’ll take Marek and Corman.”
“Not enough.”
“Luke and Trent.”
Hamin nodded. “Corfaire? Ferdaris? Good. Everyone else take a window seat; you know when to come down.” He paused for a second. “Lord Coranth, it’s best if you and your son are on the upper level; when it comes to it, there’ll be fighting enough, but there’s no point in the risk until it’s absolutely necessary. Hildy, gather the household staff and wait in the cellar. Send someone to set the horses loose.” He drew a breath and turned, last, to face Darin, who waited in quiet patience.
“Patriarch,” he said, and the word held no command, “the front northern window is probably the best position for you to take; it overlooks the front doors. They’re solid, but not impassable, and that’s where the gathering of so-called bandits will probably be strongest.”
Darin nodded and turned to look one last time at Taril. “Don’t worry,” he said, and kne
w it was useless.
The manor was no grand manse, and the windows it boasted, while solid, were small. Only two of these might allow a grown man passage, should he have the time to remove the leaded frames that held the glass. No self-respecting noble would have so small, and so quaint, a family house; most country estates could boast more finery and grand space than this. But it was stone, and stone didn’t burn; nor did it easily break.
Inside, the halls were the width of two grown men, and Erin thanked the Bright Heart for it. Only at the front door did it open up into a wide, high-roofed space; the upper hall looked down upon its vestibule, and both Bretnor and Aeliah had chosen to crouch beneath the rail between the solid oak pickets, their crossbows drawn and ready. They could see the four silent soldiers beneath them take up their stance in a quiet and a calm that neither could master.
“Do you hear anything?” Aeliah whispered.
Bretnor shook his head.
“Do you think they’ll come?”
He nodded, and the nod was all his hope. What if Tiras and Erin were wrong? What if the bandits had chosen to kill the unguarded villagers and raze their homes? Even now, they could all be dying, and anyone capable of defending them sat crouched in the manor. Waiting.
Waiting had never seemed such an evil choice.
“Well, Dervallen?”
“Lord?”
“Oh, cut it out.” Lord Coranth rested his elbow upon the window frame of his personal chambers, looking out at the grounds from one side. He had wanted, at the very least, to douse the lights—but Tiras had forbidden it; he wished to let the enemy think they had some measure of surprise.
More than they’ve already succeeded in? He was weary, but a strange tingle coursed through his veins; this would be the end of it. After tonight, one way or the other, there would be no unexplained accidents, no little fears.
“Well?” he said softly again.
“Well what?”
How like Dervallen.
“You could have had a house, man. One of your own, not one that you served.”
“Yes.” Dervallen’s eyes did not stray from the window.
“Was it worth it? You never earned the epithet. You were never a ‘slave lover.’ ”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“You never told me why you came. Never made it clear.”
“You never asked.”
“I’m asking, then. Tonight. If we fail here, I would like to die knowing why. Was it for her?”
They so seldom spoke of his departed wife. Tamissen of Reydoc, the hawk of her house, and the pride. She had had so much power, had danced the political quadrille with such grace and such skill that many, many houses had courted her, and not all for alliance.
He had had no love of the city, no love of Malakar with its grim, distant glitter and its expensive facade. Yet now, even now, he regretted that her death could not have been there; for it was there that she had conquered much in both of their names. Her funeral should have been all that her life was—an exercise in power and triumph as well as loss.
“Why do you speak of such things?” Dervallen asked. “They are passed. They are not our concern now.”
“No,” Lord Coranth replied, and he let the matter drop. But he had his answer, and it was bittersweet. Even in death, she still had her power, and the good that she had brought to him remained.
And perhaps, in the twilight of the longest night of his life, he might find the passage he desired, just to see the little quirk of her proud smile when he told her of what she could still do.
Darin waited. He was alone; Taril had been taken by Hildy to join the rest of the servants in the cellar. He sat in a plain, low chair that had been taken from under a narrow desk. Staring out of the window in Aeliah’s bedchamber brought him the ghost of his own reflection, mingled with the darkening sky beyond. The moon itself was full and bright as it watched the empty grounds and the street beyond the gates.
Bethany rested in his lap, her voice was stilled; she had no advice to offer. His fingers curled around her. Despite the urgings of Hamin, she was the only weapon he would carry.
Why do things always happen at night?
He pressed his forehead against the glass; it was cool. If his nose weren’t in the way, he might have pressed the entire length of his face there.
Stars stretched out across the horizon, mounting the banks of the sky until they were past his sight. His eyes followed them along the edge of the window’s frame, and then plummeted back to the earth.
In the heavens, the stars were flickering points of cold, white light. And flickering beneath them, evenly and precisely, were small, red torches.
The enemy had almost arrived.
Darin rose, setting the chair clumsily to one side. Bethany rolled off his lap, and he righted her, leaning a little upon the burled knob of the hard wood. They stood together, watching as much as Darin’s eyes could catch from the side of the window.
He looked down at the grounds surrounding the lord’s house, but there were none upon them; no servants, no guards, no one going about any house business.
The torches drew closer, and beneath them, glowing red-orange, the armor and faces of “bandits,” walking almost in step. True, he could make out no insignia, no crest—but they were well prepared for this encounter. All carried swords, although as yet they were sheathed, and some bore bows. As the torches came up the main street, they split into four groups; two large, and two seeming very small.
Ah; that would be front, back, and the windows.
He tried to smile, but it would not come. They were in for a surprise; the only window in the house that had no crossbow-men at it was this one.
He tried to count the men, but lost track of which was which and gave up, hoping that most would come frontward. It seemed that they might, for a large group of men approached the double doors at the front of the house.
But three stayed behind; they bore no torches and quickly became a part of the landscape. Observers? Darin wondered. Maybe, or maybe not that alone—for he observed now; a prelude to entering the fray.
He thought there should be more noise, for he remembered the noise of his youth; the sound of metal against metal, or infinitely worse, against flesh—the sound of many heavy boots, the sound of crackling wood, and the shouts or screams of the soon-to-be-dead. But here there was silence, punctuated only by the ripple of his tunic where his chest rose and fell in a semblance of normal breath.
He darted behind the drawn curtains, losing sight of the attackers; it would do him no good to be seen just yet.
Steady, Initiate.
Bethany’s voice soothed him; if he closed his eyes he could imagine that she stood beside him, flesh not wood, arrayed in the armor of the warrior-priests of Culverne as she had been at the dawn of the line.
He felt the hint of her smile, both warm and grim, telling him that he did not need to stand alone—indeed could not, while he was patriarch.
A wordless shout pierced the heavy stillness. Darin chanced a stray look in time to see a torch waver and half fall. The crossbows had sounded their quiet call to battle.
And in answer came the solemn, loud lowing of horn; one clear, deep sound. Darin was not so foolish as to hope it a call to retreat.
He ducked back again, but this time he had work to do; he crawled along the floor, dragging Bethany with him along the bare hardwood, until he reached the pale oak of Aeliah’s bedside table. He clambered up then, sure that no one would spot him from without, and guttered the flame of the oil-burning lamp.
Darkness descended, broken only by the glimmer of like lamps in the inner halls. It was odd that he could feel the darkness as a cloak of security in the middle of an attack, but he could dwell on this later; the window beckoned, and the war.
Erin heard the shout from beyond the doors. Her hand gripped her sword more tightly, and she pulled her shield down from over her shoulder. The horn followed, and she stepped forward; it was almost time.
Her armor was leather, a heavy stiff jerkin dyed in the gray of the lines. Lord Coranth had offered her “proper armor” and had been a little upset when she declined to wear it, and even more so when she did not explain why.
Corfaire had only looked at her out of the side of an eye; his eyebrow had formed an arch both familiar and annoying to her, but he had offered no comment. He stood beside her now, his sword no less ready.
“They are upon the door,” Erin said in a soft voice. The softness was a deception; all who waited could hear each word clearly. “Be ready.”
“You hear well,” Corfaire said, the tone mocking.
She didn’t waste breath on a reply.
“They have a small ram. They will start now.”
And the crash came. The doors shivered in their frames, but they held for the moment.
“Back,” Tiras said softly.
“What?”
“The door will not hold. Luke, Trent—stay behind the kitchen door for the moment; Marek, Corman—behind those of the dining hall.”
Luke’s jaw seemed to spring open, but Trent caught him by the shoulder and began to drag him to the kitchen.
“You’re out here on your own?”
“You’ll know when to come out, I trust,” Tiras said wryly.
Luke started to speak again, then thought the better of it. He was used to taking Hamin’s orders in times of battle, but in any other situation he answered to Hildy. A quiet old man, a noisy old woman, what was the difference? He smiled, even as he drew his sword and flattened himself against the wall as much as his size would allow. Hildy was certainly more than she seemed—which was saying quite a bit—and from what he had heard, so was the old man.
Marek looked relieved. He’d stood with Luke before and knew that Luke could be counted on to take orders about half the time. If he’d been serving in the regular army, he’d have either been cashiered or, well, best not think about it yet.
There was plenty of death in the air as it was.
The door shivered again, but this time there was an audible crack at its center.
Chains of Darkness, Chains of Light Page 17