“Don’t tell me,” Osrith mocked. “This wasn’t an accident.”
Symmlrey ignored Osrith and his sarcasm, turning to Kassakan. “The dead man was quite large. Even someone the size of Osrith, or larger, couldn’t overpower, kill, and throw a body that size over the railing without leaving some scrapes or scuff marks. Especially if the servant’s account is true. A struggle in full mail leaves marks, even on stone, marks that the wind cannot erase.”
Osrith had to concede that point. Even Kassakan might have a hard time tossing around that portly castellan in the way that boy had described. And he’d seen the kind of marks she was talking about. Then again, there were ways around that. He knew from experience.
“Are you sure this servant’s reliable, Kassakan?” he asked.
“I believe Seth’s account is honest and accurate,” she said, and not for the first time that evening. “Master Madrharigal and I arrived on the scene within a few clicks, and my suspicions were immediately aroused.”
“What, you saw something?”
“I saw nothing, but I smelled something. Something….” She paused, and then leaned in closer to Osrith and the wilhorwhyr, away from the ears of the guards. “Wrong.”
Osrith’s spine tightened. The last time she’d smelled something wrong had been in Oszmagoth, and he remembered all too well what that something had been. He bit the word off in his mouth, conscious of Kassakan’s obvious reluctance to let this information slip to the guards. He doubted she was worried about their trustworthiness so much as she wished to avoid a panic. Gods knew he wouldn’t receive word of srhrilakiin loose in the keep very well if he were in their shoes.
Symmlrey looked from Kassakan’s face to Osrith’s, and then back again. “Wrong?” she echoed. “What do you mean?”
“Du’uhorrim,” supplied the hosskan in auldenish.
Osrith’s grasp of the tongue was only passable, but that was one word with which he was all too familiar. The kin word for srhrilakiin was disturbingly similar, dhûnorihm, or ‘living shadow.’
Symmlrey nodded, her eyes narrowing in thought. “Then the question becomes why,” she said. “But perhaps we should ask it elsewhere.”
Elsewhere, as it turned out, was in the increasingly crowded quarters of Vaujn and his company of kin. Osrith felt this place offered them both the safety of friendly ears and the best potential for friendly advice. The kin had been fighting srhrilakiin back when humans were running around naked and hunting with sticks. And Osrith, though experienced, knew when to defer to the experts.
The scene, when they arrived, was confusing. Two priests from the Order of Saint Aerylan were yelling passionately about something or other, gesturing impatiently at the sleeping form of Sir Artygalle. Mother Chloe had interposed herself between the anxious healers and the subject of their pleas, her husband on her right, and Calvraign on her left. For the moment, the other kin in the room were content to let them argue, but as tempers flared, Osrith knew that wasn’t going to last much longer.
“I don’t care who said to move him,” Chloe stated. From her tone, it was clear it wasn’t the first time. “He’s resting comfortably where he is.”
Vaujn nodded in grim agreement, a glint of challenge in his eyes.
“I am a knight in the Order Royal!” Calvraign announced, his words limping from a mouth unaccustomed to giving orders. “And I demand you leave him be!”
One of the white-robed priests spared him a dismissive grin, and the other was about to repeat himself yet again, raising his finger indignantly in the air, when Osrith stepped in. “What’s this all about?” the mercenary demanded.
The priest turned to confront Osrith, but fell to one knee when he spied Kassakan behind him in the doorway. “Blessed One,” he murmured. “You honor us.”
Osrith rolled his eyes as Kassakan pushed past him and bowed to the healers. Though it was common for humans to fawn all over the hosskan, the Order of Saint Aerylan held them in near saintly regard. How and when the hosskan had earned this sort of reverence was rooted in the legend of the First Battle, but Osrith didn’t know or care much about the specifics. He thought it had something to do with teaching Saint Aerylan herself how to save Irdik after the andu’ai gods had wounded him. Whatever it was, and however foolish he thought it, such deference did come in handy sometimes.
“None of you do the man any service by yelling and carrying on,” she chastised. “Now, explain what’s going on. Quietly.”
“Our apologies, Blessed One. Of course, you are correct,” the priest said, and hurried on to explain. “His Holiness, the archbishop, has instructed us to bring Sir Artygalle to the infirmary at Saint Severun’s without delay. He does not trust the physics of King’s Keep to look on him without bias. These… people will not release him to us.”
Chloe opened her mouth, but shut it again at a glance from the hosskan.
“He appears comfortable enough where he is,” reasoned Kassakan, “and these kin have no bias for or against the Knights Lancer. Would he rest any quieter at Saint Severun’s?”
“But the archbishop–”
“Do you serve the needs of your patient, or the needs of His Holiness?”
The healer hesitated. “But he was most insistent, Blessed One.”
Kassakan said nothing, but stared complacently into the eyes of the priest. The healer dropped his gaze. “I will inform His Holiness that Sir Artygalle is safe in your hands. I ask only that you tell us when he is awake and able to be moved.”
“I will,” promised Kassakan as she walked them to the door. “And please express my regrets to the archbishop.”
The priests bowed again and left.
“Thank you,” Chloe said, visibly relieved. “You might want to look at him yourself. I think your arts are more advanced than mine. His arm’s not broken, but it might be cracked a little, judging from all the swelling and discoloration. Also, he’s lost a bit of blood.”
Kassakan joined Mother Chloe at the bedside. “I’ll have a look.”
“You do that,” said Osrith, his impatience bleeding through into his voice. He grabbed Vaujn’s arm and guided him over to the long table. “We’ve got matters to discuss.”
“Matters?”
“Yeah. I’m sure you’ve been told about the castellan’s little accident. No one really thinks it was an accident, of course, but there are appearances to keep up. It all boils down to this, though: we might have a dhûnorihm on the loose in the keep.” Osrith took a seat across from Vaujn, and Symmlrey hovered behind him. “Kassakan said that the dreamstone foretold some dire threat to the prince, amongst other things. We have to figure out what’s going on and put an end to it.”
“And they’re paying you how much to do this?” Vaujn asked.
Osrith shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “Nothing, exactly,” he grumbled. “But I’m never going to get paid if this mess isn’t sorted out soon. Will you help me hunt this thing down and get rid of it?”
“By my beard, Osrith!” Vaujn shouted, slamming the table with his fist and upsetting a tankard or two in the process. “We’ll kill the damn thing twice, if you’ll let us.”
“This one is not of the average breed,” said Symmlrey, her reserved speech in decided contrast to the captain’s enthusiasm.
At this point, Symmlrey had the attention of the entire room. Osrith saw the glint of purpose taking light in the eyes of the kin, interest in those of Kassakan, and something less cerebral in Calvraign’s awed stare.
Damn it, he thought, I forgot about the kid.
“Hey, Calvraign,” he said, waving the young knight over. It was too late to keep him from falling under Symmlrey’s glamour, but he’d promised Aeolil that he’d watch out for him. It seemed the least he could do. If nothing else, he could wipe the drool from his gaping mouth every once in a while. “Take a seat and listen. This concerns your king, so it concerns you.”
Calvraign took the offered seat, and gave Symmlrey his undivided and rapt attention.
“The du’uhorrim have great strength, in all their varieties, and some are shape shifters. But this one, according to Seth, spoke with Burton as if they were known to each other. This sort of deception points to something more than any lesser shadowborn is capable of. This killer is masquerading as a human knight of some standing, one of the Prince’s Guard, and clever enough to conceal this murder as an accident or suicide. If it hadn’t been for the fortuitous eavesdropping of a servant, we would have little reason to suspect treachery, and no reason to suspect one of Inulf’s men. That portion of the tower was deserted and forbidden, and most everyone in the keep was far removed and otherwise involved in the preparations for all the feasts.”
“Okay,” agreed Vaujn, “that all makes sense. Your average srhrilakiin just wants to suck the life out of you and be on its merry way, and this thing seems to have more complex intent. And if it went to all this trouble to kill the castellan, it must’ve felt this man had compromised its plan.”
“But what is it, then?” asked Osrith.
“A shadowyn, probably, and a powerful one to remain undetected for who knows how long. Perhaps even a lord of the Shadowyn Court.” Symmlrey looked across the room at Kassakan. “Do you agree?”
“I’m afraid I do,” the hosskan said reluctantly.
“Well that’s not good,” Vaujn said. “Not good at all. You’re saying we have some sort of shadowyn, or worse, running amok within the palace under the assumed identity of a trusted guardsman. I know your reputation, Osrith, and I’ve heard legends about the wilhorwhyr from the old days – and I’m sure you’re no slouch in battle either, Kassakan – but this won’t be any easy task.”
Vaujn scratched at his beard. “I suppose we could pin it down, if we caught it by surprise. Kinsteel will pierce flesh and Shadow, hold it still so Chloe can cast it into a gem. You’ve a gem, Chloe?”
She nodded. Her frown, however, was not encouraging.
“We’ve managed it before,” Vaujn mused, as if convincing himself or his wife.
She arched an eyebrow.
“Well….” He shook his head. “Maybe not a shadowyn lord. But we’ve taken down shadowyn, sure enough. Once or twice.”
“Binding a soul to a gem is tricky business,” Mother Chloe said. “The incantation is complicated. Any distraction, any disruption, and it could go awry. If we cannot subdue it quickly, it may prove a match for all of us.”
Osrith wanted to disagree, but there was no fighting the logic. He would rate a shadowyn just below Dieavaul in terms of pure lethality. He tried to remember the words of the prophecy Kassakan had told him about, something concerning the doom of the king and his line and the Ebhan-nuád, just days from now, this very Midride.
“Kassakan,” he said, “you should tell Agrylon straight away. If this thing has slipped into the keep undetected, his wards must have been compromised. He’ll need to figure out how or where and fix it, and then you two can start working up some kind of defense.
“I’ll go ask around about Burton. If I can find out what got him killed, that might help us track down which of the guardsmen this thing is, or what exactly it has planned. Symmlrey, I’ll trust you and the kin to do whatever you must, but we should be discreet. We don’t want it to suspect we know who or what it is. Public word is that this was an accident. We should make sure that remains the public word.”
“What can I do?” asked Calvraign, looking hopefully at Symmlrey. “Can I be of any help?”
Osrith got up from the table and grabbed hold of Calvraign’s tunic. “Why don’t you come with me?” he said, physically dragging the young man to his feet. “I doubt they’ll need you underfoot.”
“But,” protested Calvraign, stumbling in Osrith’s wake.
Osrith pulled him through the door and pushed him down the hallway. “Just keep walking,” he advised. “It’ll wear off in a click or two, if you’re lucky.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
PERSUASIONS
BROHAN found the king in his bedchambers, attired for sleep but evidently finding none. It seemed, in his zeal, that His Majesty had even asked considerable help from the wine cellars, though the evidence suggested the empty flagons discarded at his bedside had been stingy in their assistance. The master bard attempted an easy expression of mirth, but his wan smile was more a thing of pity than happiness.
“Your Majesty requires a lullaby?” he asked. It was hard to see Guillaume like this, after so many years of strength. Self-pity didn’t suit him.
The king didn’t seem to notice the slight affront. Agrylon, nearly invisible in his seat by the fire, did. “Your tone lacks a certain respect, Master Madrharigal.”
Brohan considered denying it and smoothing the situation over with a few choice words. He could, and quite easily, mollifying the wizard and amusing the king all at once. He chose not to. There was a time for deferral and pleasantries, and then there was a time for honesty, brutal though it might be.
“Your keep is in uproar, your kingdom not far behind, and Your Majesty is drunk. Meanwhile, your lord high chamberlain sits warming his mystic toes by the fire, content to watch while his own pot boils – taking time out, of course, to chastise my ill-placed sarcasm. To whom should I address my respects, then? The aging dotard of a king who chains himself to his sorrows, or the manipulative bastard of a sorcerer with more secrets than sense?”
Guillaume’s eyes widened, and he drew himself up onto his feet to confront the bard. He swayed a bit, misplaced a foot on the hem of his nightgown, and fell to the floor in a heap of indignity. Agrylon didn’t move a muscle, save to stoke the pipe in his hand with some fragrant leaf.
“Is it yet Vingeaux you mourn?” Brohan asked, pressing past the shallowness of his anger and into the deeper extent of his concern. As a man, Guillaume had every right to his fear and his sorrow. But he was king. And the king had other things to worry about. “You must put aside your grief, Your Majesty. Hiruld is threatened, as are you, and by forces too powerful for us to waste time on tears. The enemy is afoot within the keep even as we speak.”
“My son,” moaned Guillaume. “I’ve damned him. I damned them all.”
Brohan hesitated, not sure what to make of that.
Agrylon was quick to fill the silence. “As you said, Master Madrharigal, the king is drunk.” The wizard looked over at Guillaume fiercely. “And perhaps he shouldn’t discuss such delicate matters.”
Delicate matters, Brohan wondered. Damning his sons? What are they on about? “What is amiss, Your Majesty? Surely you don’t blame yourself for Vingeaux’s death, or this threat to Hiruld. I don’t understand.”
“The mistake was mine,” he murmured, “awful that it was, and I tried to make amends. I tried – you must believe me! But now I see. Now I see.”
Brohan would have dismissed the king’s words as senseless ranting, fueled mostly by alcohol, save for the tense stare of Agrylon from the fireside. Whatever the king was rambling about, there was some truth to it. Some truth Agrylon wished well hidden and unspoken.
“What do you see?” Brohan prodded.
“You can never escape the consequences, Brohan. They always find you. They haunt you until you’re mad.” The king rubbed at his eyes. “It’s my fault. I’ve damned them.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, Your Majesty,” Agrylon said, igniting a long, thin stick from the fireplace. He lit his pipe with a casual puff. “You should rest. We can discuss this tomorrow.”
The king ignored him. He pushed himself up on his arms, then to his knees, leaning against the bed frame and facing the master bard. He tried to square his shoulders, but he still listed against the bed, weak and tired. “I can still rule,” he said, but it sounded as if he were attempting to convince himself as much as the bard. “I must. But there’s so much you don’t know, my friend.” There was no anger in his voice, only exhaustion, sadness, and a trace of resignation.
>
“Then tell me,” Brohan pleaded, gripping the king’s arm. “I don’t wish to see you like this anymore! You’re a shadow of your old self, Guillaume! A fading shadow!”
“I must mend what I’ve wrought,” he said. “For my son’s sake, if not my own.”
“Your Majesty!” There was no pretense of mildness in Agrylon’s voice now, only a cold warning.
“I have ever been your friend, Guillaume, and my counsel, though sparing, has always been genuine.” Brohan could see the king’s torment written on the dry parchment of his face, and recognized it now as guilt more than self-pity. What no foreign nation could ever have done – subvert his confidence and conquer his will – Guillaume had done for them. It ate at him from within like rot eating at the heart of a great tree, leaving it to stand a hollow shell and a bitter reminder of its past stature. And so Providayne would soon follow, if nothing were done. “Whatever secrets Agrylon has had you swallow are lodged in your throat. Spit them out, Your Majesty, or you’ll choke on them.”
“Yes,” agreed the king. “Yes, it’s finally time.” Guillaume looked over at his chamberlain defiantly. “It’s time, Agrylon.”
The wizard blew out a long streamer of smoke, and pointed at Brohan with his pipe stem. “Don’t let him goad you, Your Majesty. He has motives of his own.” The pipe smoke snaked out lazily across the room. “He serves the interests of the Bard College, and that puppet master in Aeth’lyn Fann.” The aromatic cloud settled about the king like a thin, nebulous fog. “You should rest before considering such things. Rest.”
Guillaume’s head slumped against his mattress, and he slept, still sitting up, at Agrylon’s cue. Brohan turned to confront the wizard, even as the smoke drifted across to him. He recognized the smell as it tickled his nostrils. He gritted his teeth, angry that he hadn’t noticed that sickly sweet stench before. Fenyl weed, he thought in disgust. The better to keep him agreeable. If that old wizard thinks I’ll be so easily…
In Siege of Daylight Page 55