In Siege of Daylight
Page 29
“That man,” panted Seth, “snuck in. With that bag.”
“What? What are you talking about? What bag?”
“Here.” Seth pointed at the bag that lay on the mattress, and the small shapes that moved about it with a barely audible clicking sound. “Stay back, I’ll get a light.”
Seth ran over toward the fireplace and lit a candle from the lip of the hearth. His face was sweaty and terrified in its feeble halo. They leaned over the bed together, still keeping their distance somewhat, as Seth brought the illuminating flame down to the writhing blotch of shapes on the mattress.
A dozen spiders, smaller than the tip of a finger, scurried about, in, and around the open bag. They were covered in short, shiny black fur with tiny red marks just behind their mandibles, which rattled together unceasingly to produce the clicking noise Seth had heard. Both onlookers were pale.
“What are they?” asked Calvraign, but from his tone Seth could tell he already knew.
“Hive spiders,” whispered Seth, and not a moment later set fire to the fine linens and silks that had covered Calvraign in his sleep not long before. The fire hungrily devoured the bedding and the skittering spiders as they looked on, hearts pounding to the same rapid beat, until they were sure that the remnants of their nightmare were consumed completely in the flames.
CHAPTER TWENTY
PAYING DEBTS
AEOLIL rubbed the thick-bristled brush along the horse’s back in long, firm strokes, leaning forward from the waist to put more of her weight into the work. Her hair was fastened haphazardly behind her neck in what resembled a lustrous auburn snarl more than a loose braid, a few odd stems of straw orphaned within the tangled mess. She was warm in her fur-lined riding leathers, and comfortable. She had always loved her horses, but here in King’s Keep, the stables had the added appeal of allowing her a reprieve from the encumbrance of her formal attire. She quelled those thoughts quickly, hoping to avoid any more acute pains of homesickness.
A soft muzzle brushed her cheek, and she leaned into it, hugging the stallion’s head with her left arm and scratching between his ears. He pawed the straw floor with one hoof and snorted. She smiled. Windthane was the most powerful and stately of all the steeds in the stable. She was biased somewhat, for she owned him, but she still felt the assessment was a fair one. He was tall, broad, and dapple-grey, with strength to bear a knight in arms, fully armored, and still shoulder the weight of his own barding without strain. And Windthane was fast, faster than many a horse bred solely for racing, and if she didn’t know better, she would think he was the proudest horse she had ever laid eyes on. It had always been a girlish fancy of hers to think of her animals in human terms, one of the few girlish things she had not yet convinced herself to leave behind.
A rooster crowed from the pens, twenty yards beyond the back wall of the stable, and with its everyday cackle of delight, Aeolil sighed. She had no great love of waking before either sun had yet crested the horizon, but it was the sole way she could steal some time alone with the horses. If she waited until daybreak, Bleys would be on duty and unwilling to wait just beyond the stable doors. No, he saw fit to stand on guard outside the stall itself, scowling at the stable hands. With Chadwick and Stefan she had better luck; they would post themselves one outside each of the two stable entrances. They, at least, had some respect for her privacy.
Aeolil looked up at the knock on the stall door. A young man stood there, dressed in casual, if not poor, attire. A long brown cloak of wool hung from his shoulders, the hood thrown back, covering him from his neck to his well-worn boots. A glimpse of coarse fabric was visible beneath, but nothing more. From his stance and carriage, she judged him a soldier of some sort. His features were unassuming, neither handsome nor plain – a thoroughly average man.
“Your pardon, good lady,” he said, his words tinged with the clipped syllables of a Northern accent. “May I trouble you for a moment?”
He was a stranger, she assumed. Not only from his accent, but because he failed to recognize her as a lady of rank. None would dare speak to a noblewoman in such an informal manner within King’s Keep, where etiquette was like bread at mealtime – seldom noticed unless absent. Still, his tone was very polite for a soldier addressing a stable hand. A messenger, maybe? His eyes were steady as they held hers – not with the cold scrutiny of men like Bleys, or the lecherous hints of countless others. This was different. It was softer, but no less intent of purpose.
“That all depends,” she said after her brief scrutiny, “on what sort of trouble you refer to.”
He cocked his head at her, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Oh.” A brief but genuine smile curved his lips for a moment; then he shrugged and continued. “I am Sir Artygalle. I am to meet Lady Aeolil in the stables at daybreak. Her men sent me through. Might you know where I can find her, please?”
This was Brohan’s great knight? Aeolil tried to refrain from hasty judgments, but this man did not appear like any knight whom she had ever known. Even those less concerned with ceremony and pretense, which were common enough in her lands, carried themselves with a certain dignity – a confidence and bearing that were unmistakable. This man scarcely had the aplomb of a squire. Regardless, she could not help but admire the courtesy he extended a young woman who, to his eyes, was but a common serf. She thought this quality more admirable, and genuine, than the more courtly airs she had expected.
“I think that can be arranged,” she said. She hung the horse brush from its wooden peg on the back wall, caught sight of her leathered arm, and smiled at the irony. She had been so taken aback by his appearance she hadn’t even thought what he would think of her own. Should a lady really dress down like this, even to tend horse? Should she even be tending horse? Perhaps there was something in the well at King’s Keep that induced aloofness. She was certain that five years gone, she wouldn’t so much as blink at Sir Artygalle’s apparent lack of decorum.
“I beg your pardon, sir knight,” she started again, allowing her most charming smile to brighten her face, “but I am she, and you are most welcome here. I was expecting you, of course. I apologize for my appearance.”
Artygalle’s mild brown eyes widened a bit, and his smile returned to soften his surprise with amusement. “It is I who should apologize, milady,” he said, bending to one knee and dipping his head. “I judged too quickly. I confess to being somewhat distracted by your horse. He is remarkable.”
“That I won’t argue,” Aeolil extended her hand, palm upward. “But please get up, sir. There’s no need for that here.”
“As you wish.” Artygalle stood, looking from her to the horse and then back again. “I owe you a great deal even for considering this. If my liege’s charge was not so urgent, I would withdraw myself from the lists rather than beg for charity.”
“Nonsense,” quipped Aeolil. “I am in Master Madrharigal’s debt, and he in yours. This is a fair and honorable transaction. If Windthane will have you, that is. He has a rather volatile temperament. Have you much experience?”
Artygalle had removed his wool-lined gauntlet and approached Windthane’s muzzle with his bare hand outstretched. His manner answered her question better than any comforting words. He met the horse with the same frank and honest gaze that he had met her, and spoke in a lilting tongue she did not recognize. Each word was a sweet musical note that sang peace. Windthane shared her reaction, nuzzling and licking the outstretched hand like a grotesquely oversized dog.
Aeolil realized she had been holding her breath, and released it with a sigh. “That was beautiful,” she breathed. “What was it?”
“Qeyniir,” he replied. “I learned it while just a squire. My master,” he paused, then shook his head, “my former master, was our ambassador to their people. I spent more than a few years in Bael Naerth. I spoke mostly nonsense, but I’ve learned animals find its tone quite soothing.”
“Yes, it seems so.”
“He is magnificent. Windthane, you say?” Artygalle ran his bare fin
gers down the animal’s neck with a boyish smile. “Brohan did not overstate the matter in the least. Are you certain you’ll allow me to rob your stables?”
“I will not squander my debts. In the tourney you won’t need a riding horse, or a racer. You’ll need a war-horse, and of those I have only one. Take care of him, but do take him. I can’t say I thought well of it until now, but since I’ve met you, I believe it’s the right thing. He’s less trusting than I, and he has taken to you.”
“Thank you, milady. I will honor your trust, and Windthane’s.”
Aeolil watched him continue his soothing whispers and gentle caress of Windthane’s muzzle in silence, pretending to busy herself with an examination of the horse’s rear flank. If there was one thing she had become adept at in the last few years, it was pretending to be at work on one thing while her mind was quite occupied with another. And her mind was truly busy this morning.
Agrylon said that to all things there was a pattern, much like a tapestry, and for those who cared to look it was easy enough to see. True power, true insight, came when one could see the individual threads before the design took shape, to know their place in it before it had been woven, to see the possibilities of what could be. And this was troublesome, because until the last fibers were twined together, the tapestry could be altered or even unraveled.
Still, of all Agrylon’s teachings, this concept came most naturally to her. Without realizing it, she had always viewed the world around her in this way; seen these threads, analyzed them, manipulated them, initiated and implemented her own vision of how they should be. She had thought of it as no more than politics, but now she saw it was beyond those simple concepts of machination and counter-machination. She saw the grander application. The more powerful one, and the more dangerous.
The events of this year had the promise of being more than the sum of their parts. She could sense it in Agrylon; his moods and his dealings with Renarre were both more intense and more intricate than the routine of past years. And she could feel it in herself. Somewhere in her mind, lurking just out of conscious thought, she could almost see the pattern taking shape. She knew it was there, but she could not yet see how or why it might develop into the future.
She felt perhaps that Calvraign’s appearance held some portent, after the reactions he stirred up in the king and court. What, exactly, that could be, she did not know. He was bright, and his intentions seemed pure. That he could influence the king was clear. If he could influence him enough remained to be seen. And this man Artygalle – what of him? Was he what he appeared? And what did he appear – this knight dressed as a peasant who charmed horses with pretty words? Was it so simple? Had he stumbled across Brohan and Calvraign in their time of need purely by chance, and then the master bard had likewise found her disadvantaged, and in so helping her gained a favor to pass along? Such things didn’t sit well with her. They begged more questions than delivered answers, and those answers begat more questions of their own.
One of Agrylon’s pet phrases seemed fitting: Things do not happen by chance, but if they do it’s for a reason. She guessed that he enjoyed such turns of phrase more for the power he felt in confusing others than for entertainment or enlightenment. It was hard to tell exactly what Agrylon’s intentions were, for anything or anyone. He treasured his secrets even more than his magic. He only trusted her with the latter.
Aeolil looked up past Artygalle, who had continued Windthane’s grooming where she had left off, as the stable door was darkened by the looming figure of Bleys Malade. He was broad enough to fill the doorway, and bent his head to clear the frame. His jaw clenched when he eyed Artygalle. She steeled herself for the confrontation, surprised it had taken him this long to appear, and met his hard eyes without a blink of concern. She stepped forward to interpose herself between the two men, but Bleys had already closed the distance.
“Who is this, milady?” he snarled, as if Artygalle were incapable or unworthy of speech. “I gave strict orders you were not be left alone with anyone.”
“I can’t very well be alone and with someone at the same time, now can I?” she snapped back, irritated and embarrassed by his demeanor. “This is-”
“We’ve no time for introductions!” The color in his face darkened as he raised his voice and stepped closer. “Dismiss him and gather yourself. We’re returning you to your chambers.”
Aeolil was startled by his tone, and her pulse quickened. Bleys could be irritable and domineering, but she had never seen him so blatantly disrespectful. Not for a long time, anyway. “Bleys,” she began, but the sound had scarcely cleared her throat when Artygalle spoke.
“Sir,” he said, his voice calm and measured. “You will not insult this lady in my presence. Though she can doubtless deal with you herself, I don’t intend to test her. Lower your voice and stand back, please.”
Bleys lowered his eyes for a moment to the smaller man, but his expression remained unmoved. “This is none of your concern, boy. Tend the horse and shut your mouth. I’m in no mood to talk.”
“I have no wish to cross blades with you, sir,” Artygalle continued, “but I will draw steel if you do not stand back.”
Bleys’ expression changed slightly, and his hand crept over the hilt of his broad sword. “Stand away, milady,” he said, caution edging out anger in his voice. “Who are you to bear arms within King’s Keep, squire?”
“If you had allowed the lady to finish her introduction, you’d have discovered that in short order, sir. I am Sir Artygalle of Tiriel, a knight in the Order of Andulin, and at the service of Lady Vae.” Artygalle pulled apart the folds of his cloak and indicated a small talisman hanging there from a thin chain. The winged sword of a knight of the Church was set against the backdrop of a golden shield, the symbol of his Order.
“A lancer, eh?” Bleys didn’t disguise his contempt. “Don’t expect that to impress me. Run back to Renarre and tell him to leave the lady alone. And leave that blade sheathed unless you want to lose an arm.”
“I don’t need or wish to impress, you, sir. Nor do I care of your opinion of the archbishop. But I will not tolerate an uncivil tongue wagged at Lady Aeolil.”
Aeolil knew Bleys well enough to know he was not convinced of Artygalle’s claims, let alone his intentions. She placed a hand on Artygalle’s shoulder and squeezed herself in-between he and Bleys. “Enough, gentlemen. The knight is who he claims to be. I have it on good authority,” she said, though she realized, in fact, she didn’t. She had instructed Chadwick that he would be meeting her here, but beyond the fact that he was here, presumably with the knowledge of her guards, she had no idea if he was whom he claimed. She trusted him, however, even if Brohan hadn’t mentioned he was a lancer. “Thank you both for your concern for my honor and safety. Consider the matter resolved.” Artygalle nodded, but Bleys made no outward show of acknowledgment. She sighed. He wouldn’t, of course. “Now, Captal Malade, what is amiss?”
“There was trouble last night,” he explained, one eye on Artygalle, “in the Cythe’s quarters.”
Both Aeolil and Artygalle jumped at that, but she was first to voice surprise. “Calvraign? Is he all right? What happened, Bleys?”
“So far as I know, he’s fine. Vanelorn has him sequestered somewhere with the Prince’s Guard. Now,” he motioned to the door, “may we leave, milady?”
Aeolil recognized his tone. Whenever Bleys moved on from belligerent to patient, it meant his temper was under a thin layer of restraint. He was not simply being paranoid, as was his usual wont, but worried and concerned. Whatever had happened to Calvraign, or perhaps the fact that anything had happened at all, had clearly changed his perspective on security within the Keep. As, in fact, it had for her. Perhaps she had been too hard on Bleys these past years.
“Yes, captal, we shall be going,” she answered. “But I wish to see Sir Calvraign. I assume Master Madrharigal is with him? Arrange it with Vanelorn, please.”
“Milady…” Bleys’ veneer of patience cracke
d.
“There will be no argument,” she stated evenly, “nor discussion, nor complaining. I understand your concerns, but I will have this done. Do you understand me, captal?”
Bleys paused, then straightened. “Yes, milady.”
“May I accompany you, milady?” Artygalle asked. “I am not yet known here,” he said, glancing at Bleys, “and I wish to cause no further confusion.”
“Of course, sir.”
Bleys chewed on his lip in aggravation. His eyes were hard, but his words were resigned. “As you wish, milady.”
“We will await you here,” Aeolil said. “Send in Stefan and Chadwick if you like.”
“I will,” he stated, glancing once more at the plain knight before turning to leave.
“And, Bleys,” Aeolil added, the command in her voice replaced by sincerity. It still stopped him at the door. “Thank you.”
“Of course, milady,” he said, and left them, jaws clenched and shaking his head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
TOO MUCH TALK
THE hearth was ablaze in the prince’s receiving chamber, warming the cool morning air but not Calvraign’s mood. Hiruld had generously provided a breakfast of pastries, cold meats, and mulled cider, and even replaced the clothing damaged by the fire in Calvraign’s bedchamber. Most importantly to Calvraign, however, were the men-at-arms that the prince had assigned him from the ranks of his Guard. He was only too aware that he owed his life to the alertness of a sleepy servant, and although he was grateful to Seth, he didn’t want to rely on that happenstance in the future. Nor, he guessed, did young Mister Briggin.
The steward was even more shaken than Calvraign, and slept now only because the prince’s personal physic had given him a powerful draught. Calvraign had been offered the same, but refused. He was in no mood to sleep, and moreover, the others involved him in their discussion little enough without him giving them further excuse. They sat around the oval marble table, the handsome meal all but ignored in favor of the warm cider and the debate, which was hotter still.