In Siege of Daylight

by Gregory S Close

  “Absolutely beautiful, Master Brohan. I owe you no small debt for your kindness.”

  “My pleasure, milady.” He replaced the mirror in his pocket. “Ah, here they come.”

  Calamyr and Garath were the first to round the corner, straightening their slightly ruffled appearance as they walked. Soon after came a cowed Calvraign in the protective shadow of Bleys. The young noblemen stopped and bowed slightly at the waist toward Aeolil.

  The two men were physically quite different. Though roughly the same size and muscular build, Calamyr possessed a fine-featured face and elegant manner. He carried himself with obvious pride, his hand at rest on his sword pommel. Garath, whose face was not blessed with Calamyr’s symmetrical good looks, hid his rough features behind a well-trimmed black beard. His eyes held the same defiant pride as his friend’s, but lacked his unwavering gaze of self-confidence.

  “You outshine yourself this morning, Lady Aeolil,” said Calamyr, a sly smile creeping across his face. “Why, you look like a princess!”

  “Thank you,” she responded curtly. It would do no good to acknowledge his thinly veiled inference.

  Garath directed his attention to the master bard, his tight jaw betraying a lingering ill will. “I should have known this dog belonged to you.” He flashed an angry glance back at Calvraign.

  “Where are your manners, sir?” Aeolil said, irritated.

  Garath ignored her. “I have half a mind to cut him down where he stands!”

  Brohan raised an eyebrow as Malminnion fingered his sword hilt. “Half a mind? Well – I’ll not quibble percentages.” Garath’s nostrils flared, and his eyes glared from their sockets, but Brohan pressed on. “And though you are doubtless a skilled dog-slayer, you will have to abate your practice until some other time. Unless you would keep the king waiting?”

  “You dare!” Garath’s voice was a hot whisper. He shrugged off Calamyr’s hand from his shoulder. His grip tightened around his sword hilt.

  Aeolil stepped between them. “Lord Garath, stand back. It was you who hurled the first barb! If you cannot win a battle, whether with wits or steel, I suggest you do not join it.”

  “She speaks the truth, my friend,” soothed Calamyr. “Temper’s tongue is quicker than reason’s. Let’s forget the matter and make our entrance.”

  Garath stood, his eyes locked intently with Brohan’s, waiting for provocation. Aeolil glanced between the two, her heart racing. If blood was shed to protect the honor of her hair, she would never forgive herself. But Brohan was far too clever to deliver himself into such harm. He stood, calmly returning Garath’s glare, smiling amicably all the while. If only Hiruld possessed an ounce of Brohan’s composure, she thought, the kingdom would be in competent hands.

  Finally Garath turned, snapping his cape behind him, and strode towards the doors at the end of the hall. He turned at the midpoint. “I will go, but I will not forget!” he stated icily. The guards opened the doors, releasing another warm waft of air and the growing sounds of merriment, and young Lord Malminnion made his entrance.

  Calamyr smiled. “Good day to you, Lady Aeolil. Master Madrharigal.” He nodded in their direction, and then paused for a moment, assessing Calvraign. “And to you, sir. The company you keep speaks more for your character than your dexterity, it seems.”

  “And good day to you, sir,” responded Aeolil with a curtsy.

  “You are most gracious, milord.” Calvraign bowed deeply, though his face showed that this did not come easily for him.

  “Indeed you are,” added Brohan with a less awkward bow of his own, “but your friend has a high sense of drama. A dangerous trait for those not trained in its complexities.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, “so I keep reminding him. Fortunately, drama is your business, Master Bard.” And with that, he withdrew.

  “I had best go ahead of you,” said Aeolil. “Thank you both once more for your assistance. If there is anything I may do for you, you have only to let me know, and it shall be done.”

  “Your gratitude is thanks enough,” said Calvraign, his eyes as wide as his smile.

  “Yes, well,” said Brohan, giving Aeolil a knowing look. “Your gratitude and perhaps a small favor.”

  “Of course, Master Madrharigal. What is your need?”

  “There’s no urgency to it,” said Brohan, with a casual toss of his hand. “Perhaps we may speak later?”

  “Your convenience would be my pleasure, sir,” she replied. “For now I had best take my leave.”

  Aeolil left them behind with another brief nod of courtesy. The guards watched as she passed, alert for mischief but unconcerned with political or personal squabbles. The rank and file of the King’s Guard were commoners with no links to any of the major Houses. Their loyalty and their purses belonged solely to the king.

  The herald tapped his staff of office on the floor once, twice, then three times. His voice was clear and strong as he presented her to the assemblage of her peers. “Her Ladyship Aeolil Vae of the Western March.”

  She entered with the slow, deliberate gait and fluid elegance that she had learned in her childhood. Bleys discretely stepped off to the side with the other personal retainers. The eyes of the court were on her, following each perfect step toward the King’s Table and her empty seat at Hiruld’s side. She ignored the stares, presenting herself with a deep curtsy to the crown prince. He accepted her hand and guided her to the chair to the right of his own, one place removed from where his father would soon grace them all with his presence.

  Aeolil caught the golden gaze of Agrylon from the shadows behind the king’s chair, his eerie eyes reflecting the torchlight like miniature stars. He seemed but a cloaked wraith, his short silver beard and steeply slanted brows dulled into a stark grey by the shroud of his hood. Though she knew Agrylon well, possibly better than any here save the king himself, she did not wholly trust him. This was common enough. Wizards, who wielded powers that most could not understand, demanded a combination of fear and respect that made a casualty out of easy trust. She knew enough of these powers herself, thanks to her secret tutelage at Agrylon’s own hand, but it was his mind she feared more than his magic. He was a great manipulator, one of the most dangerous at court, and she had no wish to be his witless pawn. As she broke the lord high chamberlain’s expectant gaze, she wondered if she already was.

  Aeolil took a moment to assess the rest of the High Table, her eyes sweeping across the assembled personages with a nonchalant turn of her head. To her right, at the end of the table, was her cousin, the youngest of Michael adh Boighn’s red-haired sons, Stuart. He was a great friend of Hiruld, due mostly to Stuart’s skill as a gryphon trainer and rider. The king and Hiruld both shared a fascination with revitalizing the airborne gryphon knights that Dacadia had once used to fearsome efficiency. He was pleasant enough, if a trifle obsessed with his creatures. The red and gold of his doublet accentuated the thin beard that outlined his youthful face.

  To her far left, at the other end of the table, was Grumwyr son of Gruswold, heir to House Bruhwn. He was often referred to as the Bear outside of proper circles, and from his appearance it was obvious why. He was just shallow of seven feet in height, and must have weighed near three hundred pounds. He was not obese by any measure, but rather a hardened man of sinew and muscle. He had dark eyes and darker hair, the latter of which covered his exposed arms like a coarse-woven carpet, making the delineation between his black and green shirt and his arm itself hard to determine. He was quick to humor, but his temper was ferocious and quicker still. She had once seen him at work on a delinquent member of his House Guard.

  A bear, indeed. He was one of the favorites to win the King’s Lance this year. Again.

  Then there was Sir Vanelorn, lord high marshal and hero of countless battles. He was showing his age now, his iron-grey hair still long but receding from his brow. His eyes, too, were grey, and his austere garments. He was a grave man, and a noble one, with a dignity all his own. He had been a friend of her fat
her’s once. Noticing her gaze, he nodded and smiled briefly, in his eyes a certain melancholy. Whether for himself or for her, she was not sure. She smiled in response, wondering what worried him so. Of course, there always seemed to be something.

  Finally, sitting to the left of the still-absent king was Lady Myrtma. Poor Tianel, who had lost not only her father but her two brothers in the war. Aeolil knew the pain that resided in her heart, forced into responsibility too young, with all that she ever loved taken violently away from her. She still wore the plain black garb of mourning instead of her House colors. She had earned her exalted place at Guillaume’s side from his pity and in no small part from his guilt. For her, attendance at the festival was no more than a responsibility this year, and a bitter burden to bear.

  “A fine turnout, this,” remarked Hiruld in little less than his normal speaking voice. “Father will be pleased.”

  “Yes,” agreed Aeolil.

  Scattered about the rest of the tables in the small audience hall were the most respected and powerful of the peerage of Providayne, Garath and Calamyr among them. Although both were from powerful and respected Houses, neither was the eldest child or court ambassador, and had reprieve from paying respects under the scrutiny of the High Table. Aeolil almost envied them that, but the general mood of the chamber seemed festive and abnormally relaxed. A performance by Master Madrharigal was a rare treat for many of those here regardless of where they sat.

  “Aye! But where in shadow is your father, My Prince?” said Stuart in mock impatience. His thick accent reminded her acutely of Brohan’s new apprentice. “At this rate, the rats are liable to eat our dinner a’fore we do.”

  “Hah!” spat Hiruld with feigned arrogance. “If His Majesty wishes the royal rats to dine first, then so they shall, and who are you to question it? You’re lucky he lets you join us at all, wearing that silly dress!”

  “A dress, is it?” Stuart’s voice rose at least an octave. He leaned around Aeolil, pointing at her gown, “Nay, My Prince, that’s a dress. This here’s a kilt. Two different things, a kilt and a dress. Room enough for a man in a kilt, if you’ll pardon me saying so, Lady Aeolil.”

  Aeolil blushed slightly at the jest, but just slightly, and spoke no reproach. She took no offense at the joke, and though it was improper not to at least feign shock or disgust, she felt no need for such pointless deception in present company. The blush would do just as well. At any rate, it seemed Stuart had been at his mead goblet early this day.

  Hiruld seemed relieved at her good graces, beaming boyishly like a child playing in the yard with a wooden sword. “My apologies, sir. A kilt it is, then. I’ll have to look into commissioning one for my royal personage.”

  The herald’s staff tamped the flagstones thrice more, and the room fell silent with a hurried hush. “All rise for His Most August Majesty, Rightful Heir to the Imperial Throne of Dachadaie and King of Providayne, Guillaume II of the Royal House Jiraud, Regent of the Western Demesnes, Master of the North, the Lord Protector of Paerytm and Defender of the Holy Mother Church.”

  The nobility rose as one and proclaimed, “All hail King Guillaume! All hail House Jiraud!”

  They repeated the cheer as the aged king entered the hall and ascended to his place at the head of the High Table, followed closely by His Holiness, the Archbishop Elgin Renarre, who stood behind the king and to his right. Aeolil could sense the charge of tension between the feral glare of the chamberlain and the laughing not-so-innocence of the high priest. Theirs was a battle for the ear and favor of the king that would end only in turmoil for the whole of Providayne. Though their ideologies were diametrically opposed, their personalities were disturbingly similar. She hoped, with a brief thought to her earlier misgivings, that she had made the right alliance for her, for Vae, and for the kingdom at large.

  The king bade them silent and waved them to sit. The broad smile betwixt his wrinkled cheeks was an oddity after this past year of grim and mirthless expression. The distant dreaminess of his faded blue eyes to which the court had been accustomed was also vanished, replaced by a vigorous twinkle.

  This is the Guillaume of old come back to visit us. Aeolil smiled to herself at the notion as she resumed her seat. Even the shining crown of gold and platinum seemed to sit straighter on his grey-coifed head. Hiruld had not exaggerated his father’s improved mood.

  Already the change had been noticed. “Long live the king!” came an enthusiastic shout.

  “Yes, long live me!” joked the monarch, his smile turning to an infectious chuckle. “This is a good day!” he proclaimed with heartfelt certainty.

  Aeolil noticed that the archbishop’s feet shuffled behind her and she chanced a quick glance in his direction. His face, though still plastered with his superior smile, seemed detached, worried – even annoyed. It was something in his eyes, a furtiveness to his quick glances – glances in the direction of Agrylon.

  Then she noted the wizard’s face, also nearly unreadable, but with the slightest of smiles at the corners of his mouth. Renarre was squirming silently, in good grace, and Agrylon was enjoying his discomfiture in the same unobtrusive manner. Something was afoot, clearly. She would have to put the question to the plotting mage when next they met.

  “Many of you may not remember the War of Thorns,” said Guillaume, his facial expression fading from jolly to composed in a seamless transition. Sir Vanelorn stiffened noticeably. The scar that bisected his face from temple to chin served him as a constant reminder. Many others in this room bore similar scars. There was a general murmur of assent. That had been another bitter war. One of many.

  “And some may not remember the Battle of Vlue Macc!” he continued, again receiving affirmative but indecipherable grunts in response. “But on that fateful day, on that battlefield that served to end that horrid war, on that very ground did I almost breathe my last!”

  The gathered nobility rushed to express their confidence that he would not have fallen, but he cut them off impatiently. “I remember the day, and it was so!” The king looked at Vanelorn, who nodded his clenched jaw in agreement. “The Calahyr had sprung a trap on me and my host, and we were alone and disheartened, cut off by the river! My Guard fought bravely, but one by one they fell dead or wounded to the turf, and who do you think came out to risk their lives for the king?” His eyes were on fire now, boring holes of accusation into the silent rank and file of his subjects. “Each and all, I watched the ranks of the Great Houses hesitate to aid us in our plight! Each and all of those not already by my side.”

  The silence was thick now with shock and mounting dread. Had the king regained his stamina and his will as well as his youthful vengeance? Many faces were pale as his speech drew on, but there was a collective look of relief at his next statement. “I blame none for this. It was as it was, and battles are a confusing affair. For whatever reason, the peers of the Realm were delayed in relief of my force by fatigue, despair and mounting casualties of their own. So I ask you again, who was it that came to my aid?” There was a slight pause, as if beckoning comment, but none there gathered were so foolish. “A commoner!” he yelled, as if in exasperation. “A foot soldier! A barbarian from the hills!”

  Guillaume’s voice was gaining volume even as his speech gathered momentum. “I heard him scream for a rally to arms: to the king!, he yelled. I remember it as if it were yesterday, and I saw him – an infantryman, mind you, in leathers with but a buckler on his arm, a spear and a blade his only means of battle – I saw him grab a steed from under the startled behind of a Calahyr knight and charge across the river!”

  Aeolil was alarmed at his passion, but inspired as well. He was a king in his day, she thought. His intensity was like her father had once described to her. Fearful and motivating, confident but not quite haughty.

  “And so he came, braving the water and the foe to fight at my side. Vanelorn himself says he’s never seen a finer warrior – and I think he’s fought side by side with all of you. Yes?” His eyes roamed the hal
l, landing occasionally on those of a flinching aristocrat.

  “But soon enough, even the mighty Vanelorn succumbed to their numbers, and it was but the barbarian and I. Ibhraign was his name, a Cythe warrior from some backwater village. But I didn’t know that then. I only knew that he alone of all my armies stood next to me for those fateful clicks that dragged on like hours before help finally came. And though I live to tell the tale, this man lay before me dying, with grievous wounds in his flesh that had been meant for mine. I asked his name then, and knighted him before he died, so he would leave this world with greater honor than he had entered it. Ibhraign of the Cythe, who came to me when my knights could or would not. Dragonheart, I named him.”

  The king was looking down at his hands, spread out on the table, and Aeolil saw he was struggling to maintain himself. From anger or sadness, she wasn’t sure. Not an eye wandered from his face as he stood there in a quiet all to himself. When he spoke again, his voice was calm and steady, like his gaze, and the anger was gone from him.

  “I remind you all of this because, though Sir Ibhraign can never come before us and claim the laud that is due him, his son may. My bard has come as pleases us for the Winter Festival, but this year he brings with him an apprentice, a lad called Calvraign – son of Ibhraign Dragonheart. And as is my wish and privilege, I bestow upon him his father’s honorary but sadly posthumous rank. Treat Sir Calvraign like a Cythe commoner, and you will be mocking the man who saved mine own life! And that would be like unto mocking me.” The threat in his voice was more telling than a drawn sword.

  Aeolil stared wide-eyed at the king. As, she noticed, did most of the assembled lords and ladies. All except Vanelorn and Grumwyr, who squared their jaws and nodded their approval. They both had as much reason to respect the son of Ibhraign as did the king. Vanelorn surely would have perished were it not for his timely aid, as well as the father of the Bear. She also noticed the arched eyebrows of Calamyr and the pale, nervous look of Garath – who had just finished threatening the life of Sir Calvraign not a quarter of an hour before. She did not know what lay between the master bard and the younger heir of House Malminnion, and for the latter at least, it was no trifling affair. But, she considered, it couldn’t be worth so much as the trouble in which he’d just ensnared himself. She didn’t much care for Garath, but she pitied his poor timing.