In Siege of Daylight

by Gregory S Close

  The words of Sir Tuoerval were the most contentious and biting. He was knight captain general of the lancers, a warrior-priest who commanded the respect of both the nobles and clergy. Like Vanelorn, he was of the old guard. His face showed lines of age and scars of battle, his old skull lined only with a thin fuzz of retreating grey hair. But his voice was still strong, and he spoke only harsh words this morning, “…and if Vanelorn cannot secure the safety of the Keep, then steps should be taken. His pride may blind him, but there’s no need for us to be blinded by it as well. The Parade of the Lists is this very highsuns, My Prince. Are we to stand back and wait for this to happen again?”

  “Oh, horse spit,” a deep bass voice replied, not sparing sarcasm.

  Calvraign’s eyes shifted to the man called Inulf, the commander of Hiruld’s personal guard. He was big, like Bleys or Grumwyr, but older, and his accent was thick and foreign. His beard was not the trimmed thing of the nobility, but a thick tangle of midnight black that matched the color of his long tresses and his eyes. His appearance was fierce, but this in itself did not startle Calvraign. Inulf reminded him of the wild hill people that lived in the Crehr, freemen beholding to none – barbarians even from his barbarian’s reckoning. The commander’s deep voice, combined with his strange accent, had a more unsettling effect.

  “And I suppose you lancers be them for the job, huh? Eh? That will make you happy, old man?”

  “Keep your tongue civil,” scolded Tuoerval with a look of strained dignity. “Keeping the king and his guests safe shall make me happy enough.”

  “And the Fox, too, eh? He will be happy?”

  “You dare!” exclaimed the captain general, rising to his feet as quickly as the blood rose in his cheeks. “I will have an apology for that, you pagan dog, or I will have satisfaction!”

  Inulf smiled, exposing a mouth only partially filled with the convenience of teeth. “I speak what I feel. You like, you don’t like, I don’ care. Honest words. You talk like sugar on hemlock; taste sweet, but still kill you, eh?”

  Tuoerval began to tug at the fingers of his gauntlet. “I will have your –”

  “You will have your seat, Sir Tuoerval,” said Hiruld dryly. “Don’t allow this dirty barbarian to get the better of you.” Calvraign noticed Inulf’s smile broaden. “You are a civilized man and a Knight of the Lance – how would that look?”

  “My Prince, this lout –”

  “Your seat, sir,” insisted Hiruld. “Perhaps you mistook that as a request.”

  Tuoerval sat down.

  Hiruld drummed his fingers on the table and fidgeted in his chair. He didn’t appear comfortable in the role of mediator or disciplinarian, but Calvraign noticed he was no less effective for his distaste. “Blame whom you wish later, gentlemen, but my concern is more in the why and the how of the matter. The lord high marshal selected all of us with good reason: myself, to represent my Royal Father’s interests; Inulf to speak for the men under his command who now guard Calvraign; and Sir Tuoerval, for the Church. Brohan is here rather of his own insistence, but with my blessing. So, speak to your concerns, but please, for once in this gods-forsaken keep, leave your politics out of the discussion.”

  Calvraign’s name was not mentioned as anything more than a topic, a fact that didn’t escape his notice or his growing irritation. Even Brohan made no offer to allow him into their conversation. He knew they had more experience with things of this nature, but since it had been his life that was threatened, he felt eminently qualified to broach the subject. He gathered his frustration together, hoping he could use it to feign courage and speak his piece. But, even as he gathered himself up to approach the table, Brohan turned his head and motioned him to stay with a flick of his hand.

  Calvraign slumped back in his seat, his thoughts again in disarray, and frowned into the fire as the debate at the table began anew. Why anybody wanted him dead, he could not begin to guess. Inulf insisted that it must have been someone already within the Keep itself, a case of mistaken identity or political motives. Brohan agreed, but Tuoerval and Hiruld were less taken with that notion. Foreign assassins were their guess, but that made even less sense to Calvraign. Could it all have been a mistake? There were many guests within the Keep for the tourney, and they had changed his quarters at the king’s request after that first night.

  The other detail that nagged at him was the method of the attempt. To die as the host meal of hive spiders was perhaps the worst fate one could imagine. It was certainly among the worst he could think up. If the infestation was discovered quickly, it was sometimes possible to amputate the blighted body part. Barring that, death came slowly. Only the most ruthless of assassins would employ such a weapon, and the risk of exposure drove up the cost. Who wanted him to die a horrific death, and was rich enough to afford it? He heard the same questions echoed at the table, each point dissected and examined, but with no more success.

  There was a knock at the door, and it swung open to admit Sir Vanelorn. He marched in, his full shirt of mail rustling with each step, and threw a blackened chunk of metal on the table. It rattled across the polished stone surface and silenced the room like a gavel. Two guardsmen pulled the door shut behind him.

  “My Prince,” he said, “this was found on the assassin’s corpse. He was too badly burned to identify, as were most of his belongings, but it survived intact.”

  “By the Swords,” breathed Hiruld, staring at the smudged silver of the brooch.

  “It’s a badge of service,” explained Vanelorn to the others, “for an officer of House Vespurial.”

  “Interesting,” mused Tuoerval.

  “Convenient,” said Vanelorn, “but I will speak with Calamyr myself. The brooches are common enough among their soldiers, but the silver ones are rare.”

  Tuoerval rose and bowed to the prince. “I must take this news to His Holiness right away,” he said. No one made an effort to stop him as he left.

  “Juut,” spat Inulf in his native tongue, watching the doors close behind the captain general. “He’s fool old man. Run to Fox, tell the Fox, spy for Fox. He’s not to think for himself, eh?”

  “He’s no fool, Inulf,” Vanelorn spoke quietly, sagging beneath an invisible weight. “He’s as pompous as you are crude, but that makes neither of you fools. He wouldn’t concern me if he was.”

  Inulf shrugged. “He talks much but does little, yes? I say let him talk.”

  “This stinks of politics,” Vanelorn said, plucking a piece of dried fruit from the table and rolling it between his fingers. “It’s been more than thirty years since last I smelled such stink.” He looked over at Calvraign, his eyes dull, his lips drawn down into a frown. “It saddens me you were such a target, sir. And it shames me that only a lad and his luck came between you and death. When the time comes, I will ask your forgiveness. Until then, I will ask only your patience.”

  Calvraign was startled by the old knight’s supplicant tone. Seeing such humiliation in the eyes of the man who had fought next to his father at Vlue Macc made the blood heat in his face. He cleared his head of questions and got up from his chair by the fire. “Sir Vanelorn, you have no need to ask my forgiveness. This surprised all of us, I would guess. If you feel a need for amends, only see to it that Seth is rewarded for his courage. He did us both a great service with his bravery.”

  Vanelorn smiled faintly and put down the piece of dried fruit. “You are a generous young man, Sir Calvraign. I accept and thank you for your kindness, if not your absolution. And I have already spoken with Burton about the boy, rest assured. I must leave you all once more, I’m afraid; the king is in quite the rage this morning. Perhaps you could accompany me, My Prince, and soothe your father’s mood.”

  “Of course,” agreed Hiruld without pause.

  “We shall take your leave then.” Vanelorn nodded to Calvraign. “But expect the Lady Aeolil soon. She wished to see you immediately. If there is anyone worth your trust in this hornet’s nest, it is she.”

  Calvraig
n paid the appropriate respects as they left, giving his best show of nonplussed calm. It would not do to let them know how shaken he was. But when the doors closed, leaving him in the company only of Brohan, he couldn’t help but channel his relief into a voluminous sigh. He felt safe with Brohan, even more than knowing three of the Prince’s Guard stood outside his door. Brohan was an anchor, a familiar presence amidst all this chaos and speculation. Calvraign sat across from the master bard, picking up a piece of reddish cheese and popping it into his mouth. It was rather sharp, but not unpalatable, and the taste improved when washed down with the mulled cider.

  Brohan was quiet. Odd enough in itself, but more pronounced due to the sour look on his face. Calvraign could tell it was more than anger and frustration that robbed the smile from his lips. Like Vanelorn, Brohan felt guilty for not protecting him – as if either of them should have suspected he would be attacked. The whole notion was ridiculous to Calvraign.

  “Cal,” Brohan said, dragging him out of speculation, “are you sure you didn’t get at least a glimpse of him?”

  “By the time I was awake, he was covered by a blanket,” Calvraign answered with a shrug. “Even Seth didn’t make him out too well. Just a dark figure, he said.”

  Brohan nodded, but his uncharacteristic grimace only deepened, his smooth face lined in thought. “Yes,” he said to himself, “a dark figure.”

  “Brohan…” Calvraign hesitated, still unsure whether he should confess his hallucinations. He knew that it was nerves and imagination conspiring against his sanity, and he didn’t want Brohan to think he took this matter lightly by worrying over such nonsense. Then again, after last night, perhaps it was not so nonsensical after all. “I think that man, whoever he was, I think he’d been following us.”

  “What?” Brohan’s eyes shot wide open even as his brows knit above them. “What are you talking about?”

  “I thought I saw a dark-cloaked man watching me a few times since we left Craignuuwn. I was sure I just imagined it. I couldn’t believe anyone would want to follow me, after all. But now….” He shook his head. “I know it sounds stupid, Brohan. I’m sorry. I just thought you should know.”

  Brohan brought his fist down on the stone table with a loud smack, and Calvraign flinched. “What? Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice snapped like a whip. “By the gods, boy, how long has this gone on?”

  “I, well, since…” Calvraign’s lips fumbled over the words. “The storm, out on the plains, before we met Artygalle. Is it important?”

  “Important?” mimicked Brohan, clenching one of his fists on the table. “Cal.” He stopped, drew a deep breath, and continued in a less adversarial tone. “Cal, never keep something like that from me again. I don’t care how laughable it may seem at the time. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Calvraign answered, though he wasn’t so sure he did.

  “I’m sorry to yell at you, Cal. It’s not your fault. I should have told you why we left Craignuuwn on such short notice. You had no way of knowing.”

  “Knowing what?”

  “Your mother had one of her visions. She saw you threatened by a dark figure, a man in a black cloak.”

  Calvraign sat a moment in silence, his temper building but under tight control. He had thought that at long last Brohan considered him a man rather than a boy. The realization that this was not true, that Brohan’s confidence was not everything it had seemed, bit deep into his pride. “Dare I ask why you didn’t tell me?” he said, the words bitten off just short of belligerence. “If you had told me, don’t you think we could have avoided this?”

  “I…” But Brohan couldn’t finish his thought. He looked away before continuing, “Yes, you’re right, I should have told you before. I’m sorry. I forget sometimes that you are not such a child anymore. If not in Craignuuwn, I should have realized the difference in you once we arrived here. You made your mark so quickly, came into your own, but I…” He pursed his lips. “I am sorry, Cal.”

  The bard’s honesty and regret salved Calvraign’s wounded self-regard. He recognized the change in himself to which Brohan referred – a growing confidence and a calm, perceptive directness he had not displayed before. It was as if all the training and instruction he had received in Craignuuwn lay dormant, waiting for the rich soil of King’s Keep in which to plant its roots and bloom. He was, by no means grown – but he had built a strong foundation. He knew that, and he knew now that Brohan did as well.

  “No matter,” he said, reaching out to pat Brohan’s clenched fist. “What’s done is done. Whatever or whoever the man was, he’s dead now.”

  Brohan looked up, but not with the relief Calvraign had expected. He shook his head slowly from side to side, his smile still buried in lines of doubt. “It’s not that easy, I’m afraid.”

  “He’s dead, Brohan. How much easier does that get?”

  “Tell me about the figure you saw. Everything you can remember.”

  “I told you, he was covered in a blanket.”

  “No, Cal,” said Brohan. “I mean the man in the cloak you thought was watching you. Tell me about him.”

  Calvraign considered a moment. He didn’t remember much, now that he put his mind to it. “Well,” he said, trying to distill his thoughts into words. “It was sort of like a dream, in a way, because it only seemed half-real. That first time, in the storm, I saw him in the distance, and when I moved toward him, he drew a sword, and then the lightning bolt struck. After that, I felt it a few more times, that something was watching me, but nothing so clear as that first time. It was just a shadow, always out of the corner of my eye, and a chill, and then a lingering unease. But it was never as if he was really there. I thought I was just imagining things.”

  “It seems not,” Brohan said, a flicker of a grin returning to his face. “I suspect the apparition was real, if not physically present.”

  “And you say Mother dreamed about him?”

  “I think so,” Brohan answered slowly, “but I don’t think the assassin and your shadowy interloper are one and the same.”

  Calvraign frowned. That wasn’t particularly comforting. “Brohan, you obviously know more than you’re telling. Don’t make me guess at it.”

  “I believe I’ve learned my lesson in that regard.” Brohan’s smile finally conquered the warring emotion on his face, but his eyes were still wary. “You’ll have to steel yourself, Cal, because my suspicions are of a nasty bent. I hope that I’m wrong, that I misunderstood your mother’s vision, and that last night’s business will be the end of it. I hope that, but I can’t say as I believe it.”

  “Oh, just get on with it, for gods’ sakes,” Calvraign pleaded. “As bad as the news might be, the waiting has to be worse.”

  “I believe the man in your mother’s vision was none other than the Pale Man, Cal. She saw him standing, well,” Brohan licked his lips, “over your body, with blood all over his sword. You may understand now why I was hesitant.”

  Calvraign wasn’t sure how long he sat with his mouth hanging open before he spoke, but he hoped it wasn’t quite as long as it seemed. “Why would you think that, Brohan? How could that possibly be true? The Pale Man. I mean, is he even real?”

  “Oh, yes,” confirmed Brohan, scholarly once more. “He is real. And though I’ve not a clue why, the man with the sword that your mother described is almost certainly he. Hence my doubts that good Mr. Seth had the fortune of slaying him, and hence my concern about your dark apparition.”

  “I was wrong,” Calvraign whispered, suppressing a tremble in his voice, “the waiting wasn’t so bad.”

  Brohan poured some fresh cider into Calvraign’s mug from the fine porcelain carafe between them. “Cal, as I told your mother, a vision isn’t a literal foretelling of the future. The future can never really be told until it happens, even by the gods. But some events are more likely than others, and that is what your mother’s vision is. It is one event, one possibility, and only one of many.”

  “You’ll have
to pardon my reluctance to take much comfort in that distinction.”

  “Of course. That’s why we are here, after all. It’s where your mother and I thought you safest. That it is only one possibility does not mean we should ignore it. We should work to avoid it at all costs.”

  “How do you propose we do that?”

  “First, we need to discover what interest such as the Pale Man would have in you. He does not kill by accident or coincidence, so in some way you must pose a threat or inconvenience to him.”

  “But Brohan, this makes no sense at all,” said Calvraign, getting up from the table to pace away his nervous energy. “If the figure I’ve been seeing is the Pale Man, why am I alive? Why send an assassin when he’s been so close to me himself? Why toy with me at all? And anyway, what threat could I ever be to one of the Walking Gods? You have to be wrong.”

  “All good questions, but I’m not wrong, lad. I wish I were.”

  “How can you be so certain? Visions aren’t usually so specific are they? Couldn’t this just be some dramatic metaphor?”

  “No.” Brohan’s blunt denial was without pause or doubt. “Seeing that sword in a dream is no metaphor. It is only what it is. The Pale Man wants you dead, now or in the future, but dead. You’ll have to accept that if we’re to eventually avoid it.”

  Calvraign closed his eyes and rubbed his temple with his fingertips. This was insane. “Blood and ruin, Brohan,” he said, for lack of anything more insightful. He felt fear like a beast in his heart, tearing away at his confidence. It left him feeling naked and vulnerable, the sharp point of a sword a tangible sensation between his shoulder blades. He jumped when the doors opened, turning to put the fire to his back and reaching for a sword that wasn’t there.

  One of his new guards, Bouwain, he thought, gave a brief salute. “Sir Calvraign, the Lady Aeolil Vae wishes to see you, in company of Captal Malade and Sir Artygalle.”