He certainly would be the best servant Sir Calvraign ever had!
Once the much coveted and dearly procured pastries were safely away in the cupboards, Seth turned his attention to the wine rack. Three half-gallon flagons sat upturned and clean beneath the wooden casket of fine Inzirii wine he had gotten from the king’s cellar. All the best vintage was kept there, and he was sure to double check the wax seal about the spigot to ensure there’d been no unwelcome samplings. The vintner’s purplish smear was unbroken, and with a satisfied smile, Seth left the closet-sized larder and began his inch-by-inch inspection of the quarters proper.
Seth picked over the furnishings piece by piece, his young eyes squinting in a solemn appraisal of their dust-chaste surfaces. He was armed with a rag soaked in berrin seed oil, which struck out at any lingering filth with a lightning-fast swipe of his arms. Its pleasant aroma filled the room as he made slow and careful progress into the bedchambers. The light outside the window was dim from the last retreating streaks of daylight, and he knew the hunt would be returning soon. Perhaps they would feast in the hall and drink until dawn, in which case his efforts here would likely go unnoticed; or maybe Sir Calvraign would retire here in the company of some lords or knights for a late dinner and song from the master bard.
Seth found himself over-attending the wardrobe with his cloth and left it with one more dutiful swipe to make a final examination of the bedding. The bedclothes were tucked tightly beneath the mattress, and the thick, colorful quilt that waited at the foot of the bed smelled fresh and clean with a faint hint of lavender. He fluffed the down pillows with an expert touch and went to put a log on the waning fire. Another storm was blowing in, and no doubt even a man of Calvraign’s hardened experience would appreciate a warm chamber.
Seth sat in the rocking chair that faced the hearth with the poker resting on his lap, watching carefully to see that the new wood took flame. Sergeant Faeldor had told him all about the mysterious Calvraign and his many adventures, which were apparently already legend in the wild hill lands. It was hard at first to reconcile the image of the bloody warrior with Calvraign’s seeming innocence and lighthearted manner, but Faeldor had explained that this was normal for the heroes of the Cythe, who fought under sway of a madness brought about by old spirits and pagan gods long forgotten in civilized lands.
“Just see you don’t fire his wrath, lad,” the grizzled guardsman had warned over his half empty wine skin. “When his aspect’s upon him, his eyes’ll bulge out his head, and he’ll froth at his mouth like a mad dog – and he won’t stop a’ killin’ until his bloodlust is passed over him. Killed his first hundred men by the time he was half your age, he did!”
Seth found he had been holding his breath at the memory. It certainly explained why the king saw fit to keep him in light spirits with the master bard’s constant company.
The fire had taken to the log, licking up the sides in delight. He sighed, knowing he should retire to his small cot of a bed in his modest adjoining room to rest until he was needed. But the warmth of the happy fire penetrated his tired bones with gentle insistence, urging him to stay awhile by its side. He knew he shouldn’t, but his own arguments were too imprecise to defy the quiet reasoning of the flames and the chair and his body’s tired aches.
A click later, Seth Briggin slept in an exhausted sort of peace, telling himself even as he drifted off that it would just be for a moment.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
PREY AT BEDTIME
CALVRAIGN had thought that, with the unassuming help of the ever-careful Smoke, the ride itself had been quite enjoyable. As the hooves of their mounts once again scrabbled on the cobblestones of Dwynleigsh, however, he realized that this was no longer true. He now had a very clear and painful sensation to give proper definition to the term saddle sore, which until now had only provided color to Brohan’s stories of long and punishing rides. His buttocks were tender, his legs cramped and tired, and his lower back was tense and tight about his spine. He looked at the far-away shadow of King’s Keep and tried to remember how long it had taken them to navigate the city earlier that day. There was still an active bustle around him, but now he took little notice, his curiosity enervated by his discomfort.
Hiruld and the others had drifted off slightly ahead of him, and he was thankful they were not here to see his changed mood. He felt that a good impression had been made, and he had no wish to undo his luck at this point. As if in spite of his relief, he heard the rhythmic clop of a horse fall in to his right. He steeled himself to make a good show of it. The ride would be done and he alone in his warm, soft bed soon enough.
Calvraign looked over to see Lady Aeolil riding primly at his side. With an effort, he kept from looking away, and did a fair job of calming his blush. He was thankful she was well covered for the wintry outing, sparing him the energy needed to keep his willful eyes from wandering.
“I was hoping to have the chance to thank you in person for your courtesy, Sir Calvraign,” she remarked with a broad smile. “Better late than not at all, I suppose.”
He reddened now, and was thankful for the excuse. “No need, milady. Brohan was more help than me, I think.”
“Well, accept my good will anyway,” she said, and Calvraign felt himself drawn in to the clearness of her deep blue gaze. “I insist on that. Anything less would be bad manners, and even the king’s favorite must mind his manners.”
“Yes, of course,” he said quickly, then with a conscious effort to at least appear in control of himself, he added, “At your service, milady.”
“Well, you have already learned to submit to my indomitable will. Brohan does not exaggerate – you are a quick study.”
Calvraign grinned, pleased with the passing remark of Brohan’s approval, and felt himself relaxing slowly into the conversation. It really wasn’t too much different from speaking with Brohan or Calamyr, save that he had never admired the balance of their faces quite so much, been drawn into the beauty and clearness of their eyes, or wondered at the fullness of their red lips. He felt the tension threatening to return and decided perhaps this chain of thought was the root of the problem. He looked about for something to distract himself.
The fluttering pennants that flew from the roof timbers of Saint Kaissus Field caught his eye. “Who will be your champion for the tourney?”
Aeolil raised her eyebrows. “My champion?” she said innocently.
The blush on his cheeks grew darker. “I meant for House Vae,” he said. “Do you have a personal champion as well?”
“I should hope I have no reason for one,” she answered, “but the evening is young, and there are any number of ways one’s honor can be tarnished.”
Calvraign was relieved when she smiled, then, but slightly unsettled. He didn’t remember there being many sarcastic noblewomen in the great stories and legends on which he’d been weaned. He had been intimidated enough by her beauty, now he found himself equally cowed by her wit.
“As for House Vae,” she continued a moment later, “one of my personal entourage will be our champion.” She pointed to one of the stern-faced sentries riding in the rear guard. “Right there, just to the left of Captal Malade, with the beard, that’s Sir Chadwick. He’s fair enough with a lance, but when it comes down to blades, I’m afraid he’ll be rather outmatched by the likes of Grumwyr or even your new friend Calamyr.”
Calvraign tried not to stare too long at the knight. He wasn’t as large as Bleys – and he certainly remembered Bleys – and though his face was serious, it lacked a certain hardness such as the captal’s possessed. “Why doesn’t Bleys, um, Sir Malade, fight as champion?”
Aeolil rolled her eyes and shook her head. “He’s convinced he must live in my shadow, I’m afraid. He thinks the moment he leaves my side I’ll be murdered or kidnapped.”
“Who would murder you?” Calvraign blurted out before he could stop himself. He felt his pulse hot in his ears again. “I mean, what possible reason…?”
Calvra
ign saw that her expression had changed. She was still amused, and he felt he could credit himself with that, unfortunately, but the shallowness of her smile hinted at melancholy. “My father and my brother were killed when I was younger,” she explained, her voice still mild. “Bleys thinks I’m still in danger. He’s wrong, of course, but I can’t convince him otherwise.”
“I’m sorry,” Calvraign said, and for once had no difficulty in meeting her eyes.
“I know you understand,” she replied, “having lost your own father, I mean. Thank you.”
They were both quiet as they continued through the city, lost in their own thoughts and the continuing drumbeat of horse’s hooves. The Harbor Gate loomed ahead, though still deceptively distant, when Calvraign finally spoke again.
“Does he blame himself?”
Aeolil looked puzzled for a moment, “Oh, you mean Bleys?” she said with a shake of her head. “No, not himself, though he’s generous enough with it. He wasn’t there, though I don’t think it would have mattered. That was someone else, and he left us shortly after. It was a hard thing to bear.”
“You must have been angry,” Calvraign said. “I was too young when they brought my father’s sword home to really understand. But since then, it’s hard for me not to be angry.”
“At first, yes,” she confessed, “but not as much now. My mother needs me more than I need to be angry. And I can’t change it, no matter how mad I get, so it seems a waste. Not that I don’t still miss them. I’ll always miss them, but I can’t live for them anymore.”
“I understand,” said Calvraign, who was quite surprised that he did. Perhaps if nothing else, loss was blind to class or rank.
“I thought you might,” she said, and her smile returned for only an instant before her face dried up into a more serious cast. “I think the king’s favor is colored by such thoughts. And don’t misunderstand me, I mean no disrespect to your father’s memory or his deeds, but the king’s affections seem oddly intense.”
“What do you mean?” Calvraign wasn’t sure if he was offended or not, but he wanted to hear more. He was still curious about the extent of his esteem in the king’s eyes.
“You are without a father, and he is without one son – and for the former, he may also bear some pang of guilt. Perhaps he feels that if he adopts you as a sort of honorary son, you may fill the void in his heart left by Vingeaux’s sad passing, and maybe he, likewise, might fill the empty spaces in your heart. At least, that is my thinking.”
Calvraign thought about that for a moment. It did make a certain sort of sense. Brohan always mentioned that the king was interested in his progress and concerned for his welfare, so it was not implausible that it might become something more in the light of such a grievous absence.
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” he admitted, “but you may be right.”
“I don’t like unsolved puzzles. It’s one of my weaknesses.”
“Not at all.” Calvraign dismissed her self-deprecation with a vigorous shake of his head. He looked up to see the Harbor Gate only a stone’s throw distant, and found himself wishing the day were not yet at a close. His saddle sores seemed a small inconvenience now, compared with the prospect of parting her company. He felt like more of a simpleton than ever before for avoiding her all day.
As they rode the final stretch across the bridge engaged in pleasant but less weighty talk, Calvraign found himself hoping for some excuse to speak with her again soon.
“You’re badly smitten, Cal, there’s no use in denying it,” stated Brohan again. “Not to worry, though. There are worse afflictions than love; not many, but there are worse.”
“Must you do that?” fumed Calvraign none too quietly as they ascended the spiral stair that led to the Guest Hall.
“Do what?”
“Make light of everything all the time. I don’t think this is funny at all.”
“No reason the rest of us can’t be amused,” Brohan said without pause. “It’s only fair you see what it’s like on this side of infatuation.”
“Now what’s that supposed to mean?” growled Calvraign, whose humor was already strained to the limit. He marched down the hall toward his door at the far end, not favoring Brohan with more than a sidelong, irritated glance. The hanging tapestries fluttered after him as he passed.
“I think you know,” countered the bard, his tone reproving but still mild. “Do you believe Callagh Breigh spent so much time running you down to practice hunting faeries?”
“Oh, that,” Calvraign said with a grunting sigh. “That was different. She’s just a girl.” He stopped to put the key in the lock, but noticed with some surprise that the door opened slowly and lightly on its greased hinges. “Unlocked,” he said quizzically.
Brohan held Calvraign back with a firm hand on his shoulder, and a concealed knife slid from his other sleeve. Calvraign was about to protest, but the severe look on his mentor’s face was so out of character that he stood there, silent and unmoving, as Brohan stalked into the room. He returned less than a click later, the knife at home again in the loose sleeve of his doublet, his lopsided smile also back where it belonged.
“It seems good Mr. Seth has fallen asleep while tending your fire,” he whispered. “Come and see.”
They tiptoed into the bedchamber and found Seth still asleep on the rocking chair with the heavy iron poker at rest in his lap. His reddish brown hair was a tousled heap on top of his head, and his mouth was slack in the deepest of sleeps. Calvraign tried not to laugh, but succeeded only in disguising it as a quiet snicker.
“Should I wake him?” asked Brohan.
“No, leave him there,” whispered back Calvraign. “No need embarrassing him now. I just want to get to sleep and I’m much too tired to reassure him that I won’t tell that fat old castellan.”
“As you wish,” said Brohan. “Though I can’t imagine he’s your first choice for bedroom companionship.”
“At least he’ll leave me in peace,” groaned Calvraign. “Go and drink yourself silly or charm some scullery girl or whatever it is you do all night.”
Brohan opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it and merely nodded on his way out of Calvraign’s apartments with a perfunctory good night. Calvraign took one of his spare blankets and laid it over Seth’s slumbering form with a curt half-smile. The home he had grown up in had not equaled the size of his suite here in King’s Keep. And he couldn’t help feeling guilty that his entire day passed without a single chore while others labored in his service. It was hard to begrudge the weary servant a sound night’s sleep simply for the luxury of being alone.
He changed for bed without too much noise, not enough to wake up Seth, at any rate, and climbed into the welcoming comfort of his bed. It was early yet to sleep, for the riders had not been out long after dark, and most were feasting in the main hall somewhere below. But when he discovered Aeolil would not be joining the rest of the party for dinner, he quickly lost all energy and appetite, and he’d made his excuses shortly after. He stared at the dark stone of the ceiling, feeling an odd, queasy sort of loneliness.
Maybe Brohan is right. Maybe it is only fair.
Not long after, his heavy lids closed and brought down with them the welcoming peace of sleep.
Seth awoke thinking at first that he had only been asleep for a few clicks, but the presence of the blanket laying over him quickly dispelled that illusion. He sat still, eyes open and horrified, staring at the remnants of his fire and wondering how he could be so blasted stupid. He had wanted so badly to do a good job! He felt the threat of tears, and growing tightness in his throat.
Many boys his age dreamed of being soldiers or adventurers or kings or nobles. Not Seth. All the young Briggin boy wanted was to one day take over the duties of Burton and be the castellan of King’s Keep. He loved the commotion and the excitement of preparing the kitchen and the hall for a feast, or the rush to provide accommodations for surprise visitors of high rank, or organizing the cleani
ng and preparation for the festivals and holidays. He cared nothing for swords and armor and dashing about on horses like a madman, and he never had.
This certainly isn’t the way to be about it, he scolded himself. He would apologize in the morning and hope that he didn’t arouse Sir Calvraign’s legendary temper. He was about to rise when he heard a soft scratch on the smooth polished stone floor behind him and to his left, from the direction of the bed.
Demons take me, I’ve woke him! He looked out of the corner of his eye, careful not to move his head and draw any attention to himself, and was immediately grateful for his caution.
Calvraign lay sleeping, oblivious and serene, but there was another man in the room: tall, garbed in black, lit only vaguely in the dying glow of firelight. The mysterious figure was reaching into his cloak, pulling out a small bag. Seth wasn’t sure if it was just a trick of the flickering light, but it seemed the bag itself was moving. No! Something in the bag – several somethings.
Cold sweat beaded on Seth’s brow. He knew he had no time to sit here mired in indecision. Whatever the intruder was doing, it certainly didn’t look friendly, and he was the only one available to stop him. He felt the cold weight of the iron in his lap, and knew he had only one option. With a silent prayer to Kazdann for pure and simple strength, he leapt up off the chair with a loud yell, heaving the blanket toward the shadowed shape over the bed.
The man spun adroitly on one heel, the bag half-opened in his right hand as his left reached for something else within his flapping cloak. Before he could act further, the blanket sailed over his head like a net, blinding him and fouling his arms. Not a breath later, Seth had leaped on the bed and was delivering blow after blow to the man under the blanket.
Calvraign was stirring now, crying out some Cythe curse in his confusion as he sat up and scrambled away from the commotion. Seth’s luckless victim had fallen like a sack of grain at his last blow, landing with a thud on the floor. Calvraign’s mouth hung agape as he took in the scene before him.
In Siege of Daylight Page 28