“Of course,” he managed, disguising his panic with an exaggerated gesture of welcome. “Please send them in! Thank you.”
Calvraign ceased his pacing with a conscious effort and turned to face the door with an illusion of calm. Aeolil entered impatiently, and Calvraign almost forgot his worries, distracted by her well-worn and form-fitting riding leathers. Everything he knew regarding court etiquette told him this was highly inappropriate; a quick look at the face of Bleys Malade, one step behind her, confirmed his suspicions. There was no need for a properly brought-up lady to wear pants of any kind, because any properly brought-up lady would only think of riding side-saddle. Apparently, the distinguished Lady Aeolil was not so well brought up, after all. Her attire didn’t offend his barbarian sensibilities in the least, however. In fact, he found her more radiant than ever. Her beauty was complimented by the natural flush in her cheeks and the strands of hay mixed in with her tousled auburn hair. With an effort, he reminded himself not to stare.
“I’m glad to see you intact, Calvraign,” she said, without the distance of formality. “This news was quite a shock.”
“Yes, to me especially,” he replied with a courteous bow.
“My friend,” said Artygalle, also ignoring any formal niceties. He stepped in close, taking Calvraign’s forearms in a firm grip. “Thank Illuné you are well. Know that your enemies are my enemies.”
Calvraign smiled and nodded. He wasn’t sure what the proper response was, but he knew it was no small thing for a knight to commit to such a matter of honor. He wondered if the assurance would have been so easily given had Artygalle known that amongst his enemies was the Pale Man. Best not to mention that bit, he decided.
“Please sit and join us for breakfast, all of you,” he said with a welcoming wave toward the table.
The invitation to sit was accepted by all but Bleys, but none made a hasty grab at any of the food. It seemed all of Hiruld’s careful provisioning would be for naught this morning. Brohan made his greetings in a brief but friendly manner and filled their cups with the last of the cider.
Aeolil smiled her thanks at the bard, but directed her question to Calvraign. “What happened? No one has been forthcoming with details.”
“Apparently someone thought I was the ideal place to start a hive-spider nest,” Calvraign said. “But, by Oghran’s Luck, my personal steward and his fire iron convinced him this was not such a good idea.”
“Hive-spiders?” repeated Artygalle with a shocked grimace. “Who would do such a thing?”
“Obviously someone who wanted this to seem an act of the gods rather than a murder,” said Aeolil. “Had he succeeded, the assumption would be that you picked them up in the wilds.”
Calvraign nodded in agreement, a little surprised by Aeolil’s subdued reaction. Artygalle had flinched at the mere mention of hive-spiders, while she had only raised her eyebrows. He was more than a little impressed by her instantaneous grasp of the situation, and her analysis. During the entire debate at this very table, none had raised the possibility that this was designed to appear an accident. “Yes,” he agreed, “but who would want me dead?” Besides the Pale Man, he added silently.
“The question should be who doesn’t want you dead,” said Aeolil.
“Excuse me?” Calvraign said, immediately wishing he could speak again, but about an octave lower.
“You know what a stir you’ve caused here, Calvraign,” she said. “Think of all those who’ve had plans compromised or outright ruined by your presence at court.”
“You mean like Renarre?”
“Well, he’s certainly made his suspicions of you clear. The last thing he wants is King Guillaume to feel lively enough to start interfering with Church politics again. He’s had almost a free hand this last year. Yes, mark him among your obvious enemies. But the obvious is only the beginning.
“Take Prince Hiruld, for instance. He could resent the favor shown you by his father. Try as he might, he’s not been able to lift the king’s spirits after Vingeaux’s death. Then you come along, and the king is all but skipping into court. Jealousy is a powerful motive.”
“But I thought Hiruld liked me. We got on well enough at the hunt,” protested Calvraign.
“Indeed you did,” she agreed, “but what better way to cover his tracks? He might even be the first to say his fond farewells at your funeral. His father would think him your greatest friend and admirer.”
“Hiruld’s not the scheming sort,” said Brohan. “I’ve known him longer even than you, Aeolil.”
“No, he’s not,” she said, “and truthfully, I don’t believe he would have anything to do with such a thing. But still, it’s best to examine every possibility before dismissing it.”
“True enough,” conceded Brohan. “And who else would you add to this list?”
“Garath Malminnion certainly thinks of Calvraign as an enemy already. He might want to remove you before you become closer with the royals and a greater threat. He might also resent your growing friendship with Calamyr. And as for House Vespurial, they might not want the king’s spirits and vigor renewed any more than Renarre. Their power has only grown during the king’s disinterest and isolation. In fact, any of the Houses might want you removed for that reason alone. If you wish, you may add any number of knights from Vlue Macc, or their descendants, who may resent the memories of their failure that you dredged up. I could go on, if you like.”
“I doubt that’s necessary, Lady Aeolil,” said Brohan. “Your point is taken. I gather you discount the possibility of a foreign attack?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head slightly, “but I would say it is less likely. Infiltrating King’s Keep would be no easy task without help from within unless the assassin was one of the Shrouded. And let us speak plain: had one of the Shrouded gained entry to his rooms with intent to kill, dead Calvraign and his servant would certainly be.”
Brohan shook his head with a wry smile. “One might first convince me that the Shrouded exist before extolling their deadly efficiency. Such exploits are best left in the Nine and Ninety Tales.”
“Let’s look simply to motive then,” she said without pause, though Calvraign thought there was a glint of defiance in her eyes. “Neither Aeyrdyn nor Mneyril have any need of a strong Providaynian monarch, but I doubt they would risk any such scheme on their own. The Maccs, if they could get in the Keep, would be better served to kill any number of nobles or knights before Calvraign. Also, news of his arrival can hardly have spread that fast amongst the realm’s enemies.”
“Have they discovered no clue of this villain’s identity?” asked Artygalle.
“Vanelorn found a marking of House Vespurial among his remains,” said Calvraign. “A silver brooch of some sort.”
“You can all but remove Calamyr from your list, then,” said Aeolil. “If House Vespurial were behind this, they would not be so careless.”
“Rumor has it you have Agrylon’s ear, milady,” Brohan said with a sidelong glance in Aeolil’s direction. “Is there perhaps any light he may shed on the subject for us?”
Aeolil stiffened, but the hard look she returned was softened at the edges by the glimmer of a smile. “His ear I may have,” she said, “but the lord high chamberlain’s lips remain tightly sealed. I have not seen him since last night, even if he were inclined to speak by some miracle. He does have plans for you, Calvraign.” She turned her head to look at him directly. “I only wish I knew what they were.”
“What is it about me that has people plotting and scheming?” Calvraign said, a little louder and more flustered than he’d intended. He had no problem taking politics and maneuvering into stride when he was an objective observer, but now that he was becoming the focus, he found it less palatable. “I have absolutely nothing to my name but my father’s sword and Hiruld’s clothing. The more you all talk about this, the more absurd the whole thing seems. Why should Agrylon or Renarre give two gryphs that a barbarian minstrel is at court? Was my father som
e long-lost Dacadian prince, or a Maccalite warlord? What? What could it possibly be?”
“Ibhraign was a warrior descended from warriors,” said Brohan. “There was no royal blood in his veins.” Then the master bard’s eyes widened, and he thrust a finger up into the air. “But perhaps it’s not your father’s blood that interests Agrylon. Your mother has the Gift. That’s no secret in your village. I never thought to ask you. Have you ever had a vision, Cal?”
Calvraign was momentarily heartened by Brohan’s revelation, but had to dispel it with the honest truth. “No. Unless you count, well, you know.”
Brohan shook his head. “No.”
“Your mother is a seer?” Aeolil asked.
“Not as such, but she’s had an occasional dream of foretelling. She said her mother had the same.”
Aeolil rubbed her fist against her lips, kissing her knuckles in thought, and Calvraign watched her intently. He blinked his attention away, trying instead to focus on Artygalle, but the knight’s face and mannerisms just weren’t as interesting. He sat still and quiet, listening carefully but saying nothing. Artygalle caught Calvraign’s eyes on him and returned a comforting smile.
“I’m sure if he had the Gift, it would have manifested years ago,” said Brohan, “in his first years of manhood. By now, he is too far out of tune with the iiyir tides.”
“Yes,” said Aeolil, her voice muffled by her hand, “but he would pass it along to his children. Agrylon sees himself as a breeder and groomer of sorts. He constantly speaks of pairing this family with that or this person with the other – myself included. Calvraign might only be the first step in one such plan.”
Brohan chuckled and picked up a long-cooled breakfast bun from its tray and pointed it at Calvraign. “I would take odds that Agrylon has been fueling the king’s admiration for you, lad. A commoner may not marry into the aristocracy, but a knight – that is a different matter entirely. A knight may accumulate wealth and lands, maybe even respect and honor along the way, and eventually join the ranks of the peerage. Give him a couple of years, and he’ll have you a lordling or better, Cal.”
“Not if I’m dead,” returned Calvraign sourly. The weight of the stress and lack of sleep bore down on his already dark mood. Each time the situation appeared to be within the grasp of his understanding, it expanded in his palm until it split the gaps of his fingers and spilled free. He was growing weary of stooping over to pick up the pieces all the time. As if in agreement with his thoughts, an unsightly yawn escaped his lips.
Artygalle rose from the table and bowed to Aeolil. “With all due respect, milady, I believe we have outstayed our welcome.” Then, to Calvraign, “You have only to tell me if you need me, but I must away to prepare for the Parade of the Lists. By your leave?”
“Go, go! I’m sure you’ve wasted enough of your time with me,” said Calvraign, extending his arm across the table to clasp hands with the knight. “I’m glad to call you a friend and ally, Sir Artygalle. Thank you.”
Aeolil also rose, motioning to Bleys that they would depart. “I’ll talk to Agrylon, but I can’t guarantee that will do any good. With your safety now the concern of half the castle, you should sleep soundly. I know you have no reason to trust me more than any other, but I hope you know my concern and intent are sincere.”
“I never doubted either, milady.”
Aeolil smiled. “I will see you at the royal pavilion, then, for the parade,” she said.
Brohan took a bite of his sweet bun as the door closed behind them. “Well,” he said in mid-mouthful. “Lines are being drawn, lad, and many of them around you. I’d advise getting some rest before the Parade. We’ll want to put on a good show.”
Calvraign reclined on the settee, staring up at the wood rafters that stretched above his head. The flickering light of the fire and torches cast a legion of warring shadows on the stage of dark grey stone, and even as he imagined the outcome of their desperate battle, he lapsed into a restless slumber.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ANOTHER FOR THE LISTS
SIR Artygalle led Windthane across the open expanse of the bridge that linked King’s Keep to Dwynleigsh, joining the gathering throng of knights, steeds, and squires that made their way to the city. He was without the convenience of a squire himself, but the tasks involved were familiar enough to him. When he left Tiriel a moon ago, those same tasks had been his own in the service of Sir Ghaerieal. But now that his master’s task was his, there was no one to take up his old duties. He’d thought Illuné had delivered Calvraign to him for just that task, but once knighted by the king, it would have been an insult even to ask. The Goddess clearly had greater things in mind for that one. It made no real difference to Artygalle. As She willed, so he would follow.
Artygalle kept a careful pace, holding back the anxious horse at his side. The bridge was slick with a thin film of frost that the cloud-veiled suns were powerless to melt away. He had seen one knight run afoul of the ice already, falling with a clatter of mail and shield to the hard stone. He had stopped to offer assistance, but received a scowling rebuke for his kindness. His own armor rode on Windthane’s back, carefully wrapped in oiled cloth and canvass to ward off the elements. It was plain compared to the extravagance of those around him, but they, he reminded himself, were the cream of the Providaynian peerage. Theirs were suits inlaid with precious gems and metals, some so elaborately etched as to resemble pieces of art rather than practical armor. The plumes that streamed from their helms in the strong winds were of silk or feathers from exotic birds, their coloring chosen carefully to match their Liege-House.
“Out of the way, squire! Make way for Sir Graeme of Bardyn-Oak!”
Artygalle moved aside at the sound of the booming voice, pulling Windthane to rest as well. A small entourage made its way past him, a knight in green enameled armor at its center. His shield bore the blazon of a sprawling ancient oak by a river with a gryphon sejant in sinister chief. A vassal of House adh Boighn, evidently, and of no small means, judging by his retainers and ornate gear.
“You’d best tell your master to hurry it along, squire,” joked one of the nobleman’s rear-guard, “or you’ll have to do the fighting for him!”
Artygalle took the taunt in good humor, nodding respectfully to the man’s back as they marched onward. Rather than cause a stir here on the bridge, let him see the error of his assumption on Saint Kaissus Field.
He waited for an opening to rejoin the procession and slid back unnoticed behind two stately knights and their squires. He recognized the golden eagle of House Vespurial, and his companion’s banner bore the black wolf’s head on blue and gold of House Malminnion. It was none other than Calamyr and Garath, of whom he’d heard so much of late. He remained in place behind them, at a discrete listening distance, and took full advantage of the Goddess’ good graces.
Calamyr was speaking, his voice a venomous snarl. “…as if I would stoop to such a thing! I could have struck Vanelorn for suggesting it, I tell you. What nonsense!”
“I knew that hill-boy would cause trouble,” Garath said in a rather smug tone. “Didn’t I tell you so?”
“Oh, shut up,” Calamyr snapped back. “As if it’s his fault some idiot tried to have him killed. He bears you no ill will – I don’t see why you can’t let go of yours. If you keep nattering like that, Vanelorn will be pointing his finger at you next.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s my subject, after all. Why bother killing him?”
“He’s not your subject anymore, Garath,” Calamyr reminded him. “The king made him a knight in the Order Royal, and they answer to no man but the king. Or did you forget his hearty welcome?”
“I didn’t forget,” mumbled Garath like a chastised student. “What a disgrace.”
“The only disgrace, my friend, is the way Vanelorn dragged my family name through the mud,” responded Calamyr. “And all because of some trinket.”
“The whole matter will be forgotten soon enough.” Garath took a momen
t to steady his horse on the slick paving stones, and Artygalle admired his handling skill. “Vanelorn may be a senile old fool, but Willanel and Inulf won’t let this go for long. At least you don’t have Ezriel to worry about. I was beginning to hope he’d miss the festival entirely this year.”
“I thought he was held up by the snows.”
“Oghran would not be so kind. Tremayne and his outriders just came in this morning. The main party will arrive later today, tomorrow at the latest.”
Artygalle wondered what the source of bad blood was between the two Malminnion brothers. From the way Garath spoke, it was more than sibling rivalry. Social concerns were really not his specialty, but he would have to become more familiar with such considerations in order to build support for Tiriel during the tourney. One brother might be ally, the other enemy, and he needed to discern such things readily. Ghaerieal had known the ways of Providaynian court and politics as well as sword and lance, and Artygalle felt stabbing remorse in his heart at the unbidden memories of his departed master. In all of his life, he had never felt more alone.
Palm open, he made the sign of the moon on his breast and bowed his head. Illuné, You have my trust, my heart, and my way, he prayed. Give me Your strength and wisdom that I may do Your will and abide by Your grace, Amen.
“Are you the one called Artygalle, from Tiriel?”
The voice had an officious ring to it, neither pleasant nor unfriendly, and Artygalle looked up to find the source. The horse caught his attention first, a magnificent white mare with her mane in braids. She was barded in lightweight chain with a silver-trimmed steel cap polished to mirror brightness covering her muzzle. On her back, sitting straight in the saddle, was a knight in the same shining armor. The helm was open, and a young face looked down on him from within. Etched into the right breast of his breastplate, a winged sword over a full moon: the Order of Illuné.
“I am he,” answered Artygalle. “How may I be of service to you, Brother?”
In Siege of Daylight Page 31