In Siege of Daylight

  “Did you know him?”

  “Yes, though not well. He would have made a good king. Bad piece of luck, that. We searched for the back-stabbing Macc whoreson who felled him for three weeks, but found not a trace.” Calamyr sighed, shaking his head with a solemn sadness. “A foul way to die,” he said. “He deserved better.”

  Calvraign was somewhat ashamed of his curiosity, but he couldn’t help but pursue the matter. Scant news of the prince’s death had reached Craignuuwn. “What do you mean? Was he dealt dishonor?”

  Calamyr looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Aye, he was dealt dishonor. We were on patrol just south of Paerytigel, and he strayed too far afield from the rest of us. Always in the van was Vingeaux, he and Alain and Grumwyr. An arrow found his horse from ambush, and trapped him under his mount. He was run through by some Calahyr dog before Alain could turn about in his saddle, and they feathered him next. If Bellivue hadn’t charged in when he did, both their heads would be on some skull-bearer’s lance in Callah Tur. The murderer had the gall to salute our ranks with his befouled blade before he fled.” He scowled with deep revulsion. “The thing had been greased with a most noisome poison. The physics had no other means to describe the state of my good prince’s body.”

  Calvraign felt his stomach tighten, partly in sympathy for the dead, and partly because he could still see, silhouetted against the sky by a flash of lightning, the shadowy knight on a hill, and the same again scant days ago at the North Gate. He shuddered, and the skin tingled and rose up in gooseflesh on his arms and neck. He could almost feel a voice whispering a cold breath of warning in his ear.

  Just the wind, he told himself. It’s just the wind. But he couldn’t help noticing that the canvas didn’t so much as stir in the midday air as they rode past the park and on to the West Gate beyond.

  King Guillaume watched the procession of young lords and ladies file through the Bridge House Gate from his window, his brown-speckled hand running through the coarse silver-grey of his unshaven face. There was a slight tremor in those hands this day, not from his age or infirmity but from the sleeplessness brought on by his dark memories, and dreams that were darker still. Images still danced in his thoughts of the shadow man with his pale, unforgiving face.

  “Remember our bargain, my king.”

  Guillaume’s lower lip trembled. Worse than simply being a fool was realizing it with every waking moment.

  “Your son is mine.”

  “What’s to be done, Agrylon?” he sobbed, leaving the window at his back. Unkingly tears spattered down the wrinkled cheeks of the face that not many days before had been so brightened by cheer. “Tell me what to do, old friend.”

  The wizard sat in the corner, his eyes poking out of the darkness like small jewels limned in gold. “There’s naught to be done but what’s been done already. Your worry now is more guilt than reason.”

  “Perhaps,” whispered the king. “But then why does he pay me visitation again?”

  “To serve as a reminder of your accord. I think you are in no danger, save for what you subject yourself in these sleepless nights and useless admonitions.”

  “Myself?” the king hissed, the tears now hot with rage. “You think it is for my own saggy skin I fear? You wretched creature! He has already taken my dear Vingeaux. I don’t wish to surrender any more sons to his hand.”

  Agrylon was silent.

  Guillaume paced his finely appointed bedchamber, his eyes oblivious to the riches surrounding him. His bare feet made no noise as they sank into the thick carpet, his ankle-length cotton nightshirt rustling softly against the skin of his legs. His hand continued to fidget in his whiskers, tugging and twisting at the hairs as if to wring an answer from them. He stopped in front of his advisor, looking down at him with an almost pleading cast to his weary face.

  “Perhaps the time has come.” His voice was expectant but uncertain.

  “No,” said Agrylon.

  “But if this is what upsets him…?”

  “I have told you before, I do not advise such forthrightness. It would be best if you kept your peace, for now. There will be time enough for all that later. Much later.”

  Guillaume pursed his lips, searching for a reply, but he could find none among his restless, worried thoughts. He finally nodded, shuffling over to his bed.

  “Yes, later,” he mumbled absently. “Later.”

  The king crawled under his expansive and elaborate quilt. His moistened eyes stared with a vacant, distant look at the carving of dragons and gryphons that crawled up his bedposts to the canopy above his head. Agrylon remained in the darkness, watching with unblinking eyes as Guillaume hovered on the verge of a fitful sleep.

  “Better too late than too soon,” said the wizard in his soft voice that was not quite a whisper. A log hissed and popped in the fireplace, spitting an ember out past the hearth to smolder listlessly on the edge of the carpet.

  Guillaume blinked, then closed his eyes under the weight of sleep too long denied. His breath was ragged and unsure of itself, but it was more peace than he had known for days, regardless.

  Aeolil looked behind her once more at the odd pairing of Calvraign and Calamyr. She kept the glance short so that it wouldn’t be noticed by her gossipy companions. The last thing she wanted to start was yet another rumor about her wayward affections. The simple fact of the matter was that she felt a debt was owed the young knight at Vespurial’s side, and had wanted a chance to express her thanks. Hiruld had been anxious to meet him too, whether of his own will or his father’s she didn’t know, and she thought Brohan might just be embarrassed about his pupil’s absence from the prince’s company. It was hard to tell from his face, or his voice, or even his manner. But she felt, somehow, that he was as uncomfortable as she with the situation.

  “Heigh-ho!” yelled Hiruld as the wolfhounds began barking and sprinting ahead of them.

  Fortunately, the prince didn’t feel in the least snubbed, so intent was he on this lackluster hunt. Hiruld shot off at a full gallop, still in the company of his guard, wet clumps of snow flying out behind his horse as he waved his right hand in the air beside his head. They hadn’t found so much as a stray hare this day, for which she was grateful in a way. In the Western Marches you hunted to eat, not to make sport, and she found little joy in it – especially this sort of hunt, all dogs and horses and running about to and fro. She absently scratched at her left wrist, where her hawk Swiftwing would perch on a real hunt.

  “Well, off he goes,” said Brohan. “Though I dare say he won’t catch a cold today with the dogs running so close to two score horse. Everything this side of the woods went to ground half an hour ago.”

  “I doubt he much cares, really,” said Aeolil. “As long as it serves to keep him out of the keep for the day.” She checked herself from looking behind them once more, disguising the motion with a shrug.

  “He’ll be all right,” comforted Brohan, not so easily fooled. “I was worried at first, too, but he’s really quite capable. And Calamyr’s not such a terribly bad sort.”

  Aeolil was glad he had brought it up. She didn’t want to appear fussy or jealous or any of the other emotions men attributed to women if they showed concern. But concerned she was. “He’s not a bad sort, necessarily,” she admitted, “but he certainly doesn’t do anything without purpose. The king has put your young friend in the midst of a hornet’s nest, I’m afraid. Everyone is all atwitter about His Majesty’s new favorite.”

  Brohan turned in his saddle and cocked an eyebrow at her. “He’s not as young as all that, milady! Why, I believe he is your own age, if I’m not mistaken, within a year or two.”

  Aeolil flushed. “Yes, of course, but you take my meaning.”

  “Ah, yes,” said the bard, “I do at that. And I hope I don’t misread you, either, if I think you don’t necessarily share his, um, interest, let’s call it, which you have certainly noticed. I’m afraid his eyes sometimes betray his will.” He tossed his hands in the air. “Wh
at can one expect, really? But still, the lad did you a service, and you wish to see that he is assured of your thanks without any misunderstandings. Yes?”

  “Said truer than my own words, Master Bard. I don’t wish to do him injury, yet neither-”

  “Peace, milady, and have no worries. He fancies you, yes, but look at him. Too shy yet with women to take liberty or offense. I would hate to think he’d lose so valuable a friend for fear of misunderstanding or gossip.”

  “Thank you,” she said with a great breath. “You have set me at ease.”

  “Hmm, well, that’s a dangerous place to be,” he said with a grin. “Perhaps you should take a step back. But since I have remained in your good graces, I would be obliged if you could grant me a small favor.”

  “Master Madrharigal, it would be my pleasure! Aside from your kindness before the feast, I feel I owe you for the privilege of your company.”

  “It’s not for me, you understand,” he began, with the faintest trace of unease, “but the good knight who made the journey with us from the north, Sir Artygalle of Tiriel. He lost his horse to the winter, crossing the mountains, and yet he is commanded by his liege to joust in the tourney. I would gladly reimburse you from my own chest, if you could see your way to providing him a mount from your stables. He saved Calvraign’s life, and I feel I owe him the best.”

  Aeolil was quiet for a moment. She loved her horses better than she cared for most people, and life as a steed in battle was not an easy one. Even on loan for one tourney there were any number of ways a horse could be hurt, maimed or even killed. With the lists already closed and most of the premium horse flesh already accounted for, Aeolil could see the knight would be hard pressed to find a suitable steed. She knew it hadn’t been easy for Brohan to ask for this, but that knowledge didn’t make it any easier for her to answer.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, with as little reluctance as she could manage. “But let me meet him first. It would do me well to know what kind of person he is. I hope you don’t think me ungrateful.”

  “Not at all, milady. But rest assured, if I was not certain of his character, I would not even make such a request. Meanwhile, our private chat appears to be over. Here thunders your prince.”

  Normally, Aeolil would have taken offense at the assumptions of such a remark, but from Brohan, she knew it to be only jest, and so responded with a chagrined smile. And then Hiruld was upon them, his face beaten red by the cold and his eyes watery from his hard ride. He was smiling as if he’d returned with the most spectacular prize, and yet was empty-handed for all his enthusiasm. He was a man with more heart for the chase than the kill. His horse snorted wearily.

  “No luck, My Prince?” said Brohan in good cheer.

  “Alas, no. All things with any sense have long since found shelter from this cold.” Hiruld looked to the sky and the encroaching gloom of clouds from the west. “As should we, I suppose, though I hate to be the sensible one.”

  “Yes, I fear we’ve already played out our welcome with the daylight. Only another hour or so left,” mentioned Aeolil with her own shrewd look to the sky. “Should we signal retirement?”

  Hiruld nodded to his herald. “Sound the retreat, good Bellivue. We’re off for home now.”

  The knight nodded. “As you wish, My Prince,” he said, and blew three short followed by one long tone. The hunt slowed its less than hurried pace and turned, most with relief but a few with genuine disappointment, and headed back toward the awakening lights of Dwynleigsh.

  Hiruld, with nothing to distract him on the return journey, began immediately to look about him. “Now where has that young Cythe knight got to all of the sudden? I was quite looking forward to making his better acquaintance.”

  “The young Lord Calamyr has been monopolizing him all day, I’m afraid,” said Brohan. “No doubt filling his head with stories of his prowess – and maybe even a war story or two.”

  Hiruld chuckled. “You are irrepressible, Master Bard. I quite like that. But see here – Bells, go fetch them to me at once. I’ll not let them escape my company the whole of the day.”

  “As you wish, My Prince,” answered his herald, and rode off immediately to the oblivious young men, not more than a hundred feet away.

  Aeolil watched Bellivue as he hailed them. He gave the impression of a humble attendant, but he was a powerful and experienced knight in his own right, and geas-bound to protect the life of the crown prince, even at the expense of his own. Vingeaux’s herald, Alain, had met that bloody obligation in the end, as Bellivue was full aware. It was Bells that saved their corpses from the dark knight and his skull-bearers.

  After a brief exchange, all three rode back at a canter.

  “My Prince,” said Calamyr with a bow, and then nodded in the direction of the Lady Vae and Brohan. Calvraign made his best approximation of Calamyr’s introduction but avoided meeting Aeolil’s eyes.

  “Well met, both of you,” Hiruld said. “I hope we haven’t interrupted any great dissertations?”

  “No, Sire,” Calamyr answered. “Young Sir Calvraign was just finishing his lecture concerning politics. Very interesting, I must say. Master Madrharigal was busy this last ten-year.”

  The prince cocked his head. “Oh, and what insights did you provide for Lord Calamyr from your vantage point in the Crehr?”

  “Nothing worth mention, Sire,” mumbled Calvraign with an afflicted scowl at Calamyr.

  “Nonsense,” scoffed Calamyr. “He’s feeling shy. I’ll paraphrase him, with your permission?”

  Hiruld waved him on.

  “He thinks the peers bicker too much and that we’ve driven the king to distraction and despair. He further asserts that this is the cause of the lingering conflict in the south, and that we are, oh how did he put it – leasing the war from the Maccs with our own blood as the tithe. Quite poetic.”

  Hiruld turned slowly toward Calvraign, who was holding his chin up in defense of his words. A slow smile crept across the prince’s face, and he reached out to punch Calvraign on the shoulder with his fist. “Straight words, sir knight, straight as an arrow. And don’t be all in a piss with Calamyr. He knows my thoughts on such matters, even if he would disagree with us. He did no betrayal to you.”

  “No, Sire,” replied Calvraign, mustering his good humor, “but he certainly enjoyed the sport of it.”

  “That I did!” confessed Vespurial with conviction. “A bastard I may sometimes be, but a liar am I never.”

  Aeolil watched as the three of them continued, testing each other’s boundaries and pulling each other’s strings, as men often seemed to enjoy. And, as far as she was concerned, acting like exceptionally loud idiots. She was content to ride behind the three jovial men and chat quietly with Brohan. It was refreshing to speak with a man who had no interest in impressing or wooing her. The conversation was never strained or halted, even when the subject matter drifted to areas deemed unsuitable for women. The master bard didn’t seem to care, or to condescend, and this she found best of all his traits.

  They both ceased worrying over Calvraign after the first hour of their ride home had passed them by. It was clear that Hiruld liked his open manner and probity. Aeolil noted the glances the prince exchanged with Calamyr behind the Cythe’s back that showed his surprise and his affection with a smile, a nod and a wink. She felt the relief come over her like a strong draught of wine, washing away the tightness in her neck and her belly and allowing her to truly enjoy the rest of the outing. She hoped Brohan had found similar comfort in the approval of the crown prince for his apprentice, but he made no outward sign one way or the other.

  As they broke through the thin veil of trees that shielded the blushing lights of Dwynleigsh like the shy rosy cheeks of a young bride, Aeolil was satisfied that the day had gone well after all.

  Seth Briggin let out a great breath of air as he laid down his oversized bundle on the small larder table. He had come away with his needed supplies, but at the expense of Dar’s long lasting enm
ity. He had no regrets, however. Keeping his new master happy was much more important to him than the esteem of the chief cook’s assistant, even if that meant his own allotment of bread and meat might dwindle in quality as a result.

  Seth unpacked his parcels and put the items away with care, making sure they were snugly wrapped in their protective cheesecloth. He had worked hard to gain the trust of the castellan for just such a posting as this, and he would not let a cranky kitchen despot rob him of his glory. When Burton had assigned him the duties of Sir Calvraign’s personal attendant, it had been a welcome if not tremendous honor. But, since that first night, things had changed. Seth was no longer entrusted merely with picking up after some uncouth hill man whom it pleased the king to treat well; now he was attending a knight whom it was said the king favored above all but his own family. He had overheard Burton explaining to Sir Calvraign that there had been a mistake and that a new servant would be found immediately, one with more experience and standing as suited his position, but the offer had been flatly denied.

  “Nonsense, he’s the best servant I’ve ever had!” Calvraign had said. “Don’t you agree, Master Madrharigal?”

  And the King’s Bard had indeed agreed, and the castellan had slunk out of the room with the grace of a scolded dog begging for scraps at the table. Later, Burton had made it clear that any complaints would be taken out of his tender skin with the help of a willow switch, with interest, and it would be the end of his days in the Keep. Seth didn’t want to make any mistakes, not because of the punishment he would surely receive, but because he had always been taught to repay kindness shown with twofold kindness in return.