In Siege of Daylight

by Gregory S Close

  Renarre raised his brow, turning slightly as he walked through the door that Artygalle had entered earlier. “So, you were his companion?”

  “No, Your Holiness, I was his squire. He had planned to knight me in the Ordination Ceremony after the Feast of Illuné. He was forced to confer my knighthood less formally, but I still have his letter of intent for Captain General Tuoerval. By the custom of my Order, this is only a formality. I have already assumed my master’s duties and his place in the lists.”

  “I see that you have.” Renarre smiled, his arm resting on the young knight’s shoulder like a shepherd’s crook. “I will pass your letter of intent along to Sir Tuoerval before this afternoon, and we will make it official.” He paused for a moment, coming to a halt and tilting his head to one side. “I remember Ghaerieal: headstrong, but brave, and a good man. We are saddened by his loss.”

  Artygalle nodded. He still found it difficult to speak of Ghaerieal in the past tense.

  The archbishop turned to face a segment of blank wall and pressed his signet ring against it. The wall shifted somewhat, and the archbishop pushed it open. Artygalle had never seen such a well-concealed passage, and Renarre smiled at the puzzlement on his face.

  “It’s more of a cosmetic touch, these days, I’m afraid,” he explained. “The secret got out long ago. This leads to my private library and offices, as well as those of Sir Tuoerval. On the east side, a similar passage leads down to storerooms and such. Shall we?”

  Artygalle wasn’t fool enough to think the archbishop was actually asking his opinion, and immediately stepped through the opening and started down the steep, narrow spiral stair. Renarre was a step behind. The walls pressed in close, and Artygalle was relieved when they emerged into a spacious hallway at the bottom of the stairs.

  The archbishop once again took the lead, heading toward the door at the end of the candlelit hall. Artygalle looked, but he couldn’t see where or how the smoke escaped to the surface. Even the smell here was pleasant, unlike the dank and musty under-levels of the monastery where he’d been raised.

  The door was well polished and embossed with a silver moon, but otherwise plain. Within, the archbishop’s office offered both a simple elegance and welcoming warmth. Facing the door was a great desk, its surface almost entirely camouflaged by several precise stacks of parchments and some leather bound books. A quill and inkwell rested to the left of the sole empty space on the desk, just in front of the chair. The wall behind the desk was a bookshelf, and it held row upon row of neatly ordered volumes. Ghaerieal had been adamant that he learn the ancient tongues, both the secular and religious dialects, and most were represented here. Artygalle marveled that some of these tomes dated back to Imperial days. Each shelf was organized chronologically and by author, progressing from the oldest tomes on the left to the most recent on the right.

  Renarre walked around behind his desk and sat in a high-backed mahogany chair padded with velvet cushions. Though not a throne in any sense, it did add a more regal aspect to his already authoritative figure. “Please,” the archbishop said, pointing at the door.

  Artygalle closed it without comment. There were two other doors on that wall, one adjacent to each corner, and a series of framed charts and maps hung at eye level between them. From what he could tell, they depicted the size and disposition of the Church’s holdings. The lands of each of the Great Houses were painted their own muted colors, and each of the cities and castles bore markings clarifying population as well as their natural resources and economic strengths. Artygalle’s eyes drifted naturally to the north, where Tiriel was nestled in the eastern reaches of the High Ridge.

  Renarre set the scroll case Artygalle had delivered on his desk and broke its seal with a fastidious flick of his nail. He spread out the parchments, examining the writing line by line with a puckered frown. Artygalle waited, still as a rock, while the archbishop read the message in its entirety.

  “This is disturbing news,” Renarre said, “albeit somewhat incredible. Are you quite certain His Lordship does not exaggerate his dilemma?”

  “Quite certain, Your Holiness,” responded Artygalle with conviction.

  “I see.” Renarre drummed his fingers in a methodical but unhurried fashion, humming quietly with each down stroke. His eyes were focused on some invisible point off to the left of Artygalle’s head. “Elvaeir must be hard pressed, then.”

  “We fight bravely, Your Holiness, but bravery cannot win the day alone. We are sorely outnumbered.”

  “So says Elvaeir,” agreed the archbishop, tapping the parchment on his desk, “but I’m afraid there is little the Church can do. The king’s war with the Maccs has spread the Knights Lancer quite thin enough, according to Sir Tuoerval, and I am inclined to agree. But, rest assured, we will review the matter. What of Aeyrdyn and Mneyril? Have the dukes no aid to offer you?”

  Artygalle shook his head slowly. “They are reluctant. My lord dispatched others to plead our case in their courts, but it is my understanding that they are here for the Winter Festival, in any case. My hope is to win the King’s Lance, Your Holiness, and prove the worth of our cause and claim.”

  Renarre’s eyebrows shot upward in a show of unrestrained surprise, and his words came out in a bit of a rush. “You intend to….” He stopped himself, and with a few quick blinks, regained his composure. “That is an ambitious goal for such a young knight, Brother Artygalle. More so considering you weren’t even the knight chosen for the task. It is honorable and right that you carry through on your master’s charge, but in all practicality, perhaps you should rethink this strategy.”

  “I know the field is formidable, but circumstance has left me little alternative. I have faith that Illuné will recognize the righteousness of my fight. If I begin with Her as my only ally, it will be enough to win a hundred more by Endride.”

  “Your faith is commendable, but….” The archbishop sighed. “Illuné has more than the fate of Tiriel to worry over. Yours may not be the only just cause to take the field.”

  “That is for Illuné to decide, Your Holiness. I can only do what I can do. In the end, it will be as She wills.”

  There was a brief silence before Renarre continued. “I can see Ghaerieal’s trust was well placed,” he said. “You are a man of rare faith.”

  “Thank you, Your Holiness.” Artygalle felt both pride and sorrow, thinking of his master’s understated smile of approval.

  The archbishop rested his chin on thumb and forefinger, once again lost in thought. He looked at Artygalle again, and then closed his eyes as he inhaled a deep breath. When he exhaled, a moment later, he opened his eyes and smiled. “I think your presence here serves more than Elvaeir’s needs, Brother Artygalle. I believe that Illuné, in Her Infinite Grace, has sent you to us for reasons two-fold.”

  Artygalle couldn’t begin to think what he was talking about, but he was honored by the archbishop’s trust, all the same. “Yes, Your Holiness?”

  “You know this Sir Calvraign?” asked Renarre.

  “I traveled with he and Master Madrharigal for a time, and I call him friend,” stated Artygalle, his calm dissolving slightly into a guarded unease. Aeolil’s words of the previous day and the temple guard’s warning both lingered just on the other side of his innate trust for the leader of the Holy Church.

  “What is your view on the young man?”

  Artygalle spoke slowly, thinking carefully over each word. “He possesses intelligence and insight beyond my own, but he is foremost a good and caring man. I am both proud and glad to know him.”

  Renarre nodded. “So he appears.”

  “I beg your pardon, Holiness,” interjected Artygalle, “but he is just as he seems. I would stake my honor and my life upon it.”

  The Holy Father did not raise his voice, but Artygalle sensed the warmth ebb from his tone. “I don’t care to be interrupted,” he stated, giving each syllable its due. “Do you presume to know my mind?”

  “Of course not, Your Holiness.”
Artygalle’s mouth dried up around his tongue and he swallowed with an effort. “I apologize for speaking out of turn.”

  The archbishop brushed at his desk as if physically removing the annoyance from his presence. “Sir Calvraign is not what he seems, despite your honor and your life. You may not know it, and he may not know it, but he is being used. There’s no other explanation for all that’s gone on around him. What it is he has to offer, I do not know, but follow the strings on the marionette back to the puppeteer and you will find Agrylon there, smiling back at you. That is something to stake your honor and your life on, Brother Artygalle.”

  “What interest would he have in Calvraign, Your Holiness?”

  “If you are truly this young man’s friend, that is what you need to discover.”

  “Me?” Artygalle shook his head, bewildered. “With all due respect, Your Holiness, I am not one for court intrigues. As you’ve seen here, I’m not skilled at concealing my thoughts or my beliefs.”

  “What is the Fifth Rule of Action in Saint Kaissus’ Treatise on War?”

  The words came out of Artygalle’s mouth by rote: “When you may, choose your field of battle, but always prepare for the choice to be made for you.”

  Renarre inclined his head slightly. “Yes. Do you understand? This may not be the battle field to which you are accustomed, Brother, but of a certainty, it has chosen you.”

  “Then what should I do?”

  “Watch him, and watch those around him. We must discover to what purpose they intend to put him.” The archbishop leaned closer over his desk. “His life may depend on it.”

  Artygalle stiffened his back, clenching his fists into balls at his sides. The archbishop was right. The truest tests of faith came when life chose your battles and forced you to overcome them. He had not chosen the tourney, and he had not chosen this, but he would not fail at either effort.

  “If that is what must be done, Your Holiness,” said Artygalle, “then I will do it.”

  “I knew you would,” the archbishop answered, smiling fondly at the knight. “I knew you would.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  WELCOME TO WAIT

  OSRITH ran his fingers through his newly trimmed beard, sending a few stray whiskers to litter Aeolil’s rug. He tried to scatter the dark bits of hair with the toes of his new boots before they were noticed, but he’d hardly started his attempt when a servant coughed and glared pointedly in his direction. Osrith scowled in reply and then turned his back on the lady-in-waiting, crossing his arms as he peered expectantly at the door.

  It was the best he’d felt since fleeing Gai’s tower, and the cleanest, besides. He could have lingered in the bath for an hour or more, with a tankard or three of ale to complete his repose, but he still had business to settle. For Osrith, business came before everything else. He was beginning to wonder if the same ethic held true for Vaujn or Kassakan.

  Both were late, by his reckoning, and he didn’t fancy spending any time alone with Lady Aeolil when she arrived. Aside from their shared past, seeing the little girl he’d last known eight years ago as a mature young woman made him acutely aware of his years. Seeing how she had grown was the harshest measure of the time he had spent in the Deeps.

  Osrith looked around the sitting room, seeing little evidence that a proper lady received her guests or spent her idle hours here. There was no loom, easel, or gwythir to pass the time. There were some books, and what looked like a year-mark and constellation chart by the window, but little else.

  A grin threatened at the corners of his mouth, but he fought it back. Like her mother, Aeolil had always had some contrary notions of her place in court and society. He remembered taking her riding – long leisurely lopes across the hills, thundering gallops through the fields, even slow walks in the half-tamed woods. He wondered if she still refused to ride sidesaddle. He hoped so.

  Vaujn’s arrival spared him further reminiscence. Aeolil’s lady-in-waiting saw him in with a disconcerted stare and excused herself from their presence with a nod. The kinsman had cleaned himself up, polished his armor, and even re-braided his beard as if for a full inspection. He carried his war-helm under the crook of his arm, its intricately worked and grimacing face a stylized mirror of the captain’s own, albeit much more intimidating in its frozen, metallic battle rage. Osrith supposed his attention to decorum made sense. The kin of Outpost Number Nine were the first to contact the court of Providayne in quite a while, and Vaujn was their ranking officer. He was, in all respects that mattered, the acting ambassador of King Ruuhigan. He certainly looked the part: a paragon of underkin pride, all rigid backbone and glittering steel.

  “What?” Vaujn said, rather sharp, returning Osrith’s dubious look. “You think I overdid it?”

  Osrith spread out his hands, indicating his own formal attire. “I can’t say you look any more foolish than I do,” he said. It had been a long while since he’d worn the blue and silver of House Vae, and though part of him felt at ease in the stately trappings of knighthood, it was a remote and distant corner of his mind.

  Vaujn made a noncommittal grunt in the back of his throat, looking around his surroundings with interest. Osrith could see where his eyes were drawn. Not to the expensive trappings which dangled from the walls, or the furniture with all its gilt and polish, or even the books, charts and other intellectual paraphernalia. Instead, his eyes focused on the smooth joints of the wooden cross bars in the ceiling, the mortar that glued the stones of the wall, and the symmetry of the arched windows that looked out across the Ciel Maer at the city of Dwynleigsh.

  His frown was telling.

  “Not too impressed, are you?” Osrith tried to keep the amusement from his tone, but he wasn’t sure if Vaujn would’ve noticed.

  The kinsman shrugged. “Not exactly a work of art,” he sighed, “but I suppose it’s in no danger of collapse.”

  “Well, for us ignorant human folk, this place is considered pretty grand, so watch your mouth,” Osrith warned. “We don’t need to start any more wars on this visit than we have to.”

  Vaujn grunted again and peered out the window at the distant city. “Our records show that my people did some work in this city, a while back – some temples and such. You think I’ll be able to take a peek while I’m here?”

  “After I collect my silver, I’ll hire out a whole school of historians to take you around all the sights. That’s the least I can do for dragging you up here.”

  Vaujn agreed with a nod. “It’s a start, anyway.”

  “How are the others adjusting?” Osrith said, joining Vaujn at the window.

  “Well enough,” the kinsman answered. “We were all a little worried by that initial reception, but it seems things have settled down some since you delivered that rock to the king. Speaking of which, any news yet?”

  Osrith laughed. “Not for me. I’m a disgraced knight errant in Providayne, not an honored Shaddach Chi. I’ll be lucky if they don’t weasel out of paying me in full for my trouble. If it weren’t for Lady Aeolil, I’d likely be awaiting their pleasure in the gaol instead of parading around in this get-up.”

  “With your charming personality? That’s hard to imagine.”

  “Yeah, there’s that to account for, too. I was never much for impressing the more genteel aristocracy.”

  “That explains why we like you so much,” Vaujn said with a grin.

  “It should also tell you how careful you’re going to have to be,” Osrith said, his tone turning serious. “Unlike King Ruuhigan’s Hall, here in Providayne sarcasm isn’t considered a courtly virtue. One quip too many might land you in a duel or at the wrong end of the hangman’s noose. Humans consider words an affront to honor as much as actions.”

  “Well, that’s pretty stupid,” the kinsman scoffed.

  “So you wouldn’t be offended if I started introducing you as my little dwarf friend?”

  Vaujn’s face colored a dark, dangerous red. “No more offended than you would be with my sword up your -�
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  “I think I made my point,” Osrith interrupted, “and you made yours. Just be careful what you say.”

  Vaujn stared back out the window, folding his arms across his broad chest as his complexion slowly returned to normal. Osrith suspected the kinsman’s dour mood wouldn’t last long. As much as the kin hated being referred to as dwarves, or gnomes, or other diminutives popularized in bards’ tales, he hadn’t actually called him by one of those names. Besides, Osrith was the kin’s best friend and ally amongst the humans of Dwynleigsh, and he was confident that Vaujn realized that as well as he.

  “Where is Kassakan?” Osrith grumbled, distracting himself from Vaujn’s ill temper with frustrations of his own. “It’s not like her to be late.”

  “That sorcerer wanted her ear on something,” Vaujn said. “She seems popular enough here despite the company she keeps.”

  “You know how pie-eyed people get around the hosskan,” dismissed Osrith. “Vessels of wisdom, blessed by the gods, and all that. She couldn’t fart without them taking it as a sign.”

  Vaujn’s earlier anger was now deflated to a more pragmatic skepticism. “That old wizard didn’t look particularly pie-eyed to me.”

  “No,” admitted Osrith, “not that one. Maybe it’s best if she’s there to keep an eye on him, after all. I don’t trust his type much.”

  “Yeah, but who’s keeping an eye on us?”

  “I guess we’re on our own, for now,” Osrith said, leafing through the constellation charts by the window. “At least until Lady Aeolil gets here. She’ll look out for us.”

  “Are you sure we can trust her?”

  Vaujn’s tone was carefully neutral, but Osrith still felt his pulse rush at the suggestion. He took a calming breath. It was a fair question. “I’m sure,” he answered evenly.

  “It’s been a while since you knew her,” Vaujn persisted, “and you know as well as I do that trust doesn’t age well.”

  “Look,” said Osrith, beginning to lose his patience despite the validity of the kinsman’s caution, “before I ever swore fealty to Old Ruuh, or fought with the Shaddach Chi, I served her family. She doesn’t need to earn my trust; she has it. It’s as simple as that.”