In Siege of Daylight

by Gregory S Close

  Brohan paused in mid-thought, and reconsidered. As a young man, or less than a hundred years ago, at any rate, he’d been confronted by a black bear just north of the Bryr Moill. They had startled each other in a small clearing, and being young and foolish, Brohan hadn’t the presence of mind to calm it with a gentle song or an enchanted word. Instead, he fell down and played dead, and after some curious sniffing and a poke or two, the bear left the corpse for more worthy pursuits.

  With that in mind, Brohan smiled across at Agrylon, his expression relaxed and his eyes vacant. Let the bear think me dead.

  “You are very inquisitive, master bard,” Agrylon said, returning the pipe to his mouth for another puff. “Perhaps you shouldn’t be concerning yourself with these matters.”

  “Perhaps not,” answered Brohan, careful not to sound too agreeable too quickly. He wanted to play on Agrylon’s overconfidence without tripping his suspicions, and he was familiar enough with the effects of fenyl weed to do just that. It was an old trick common to less reputable magicians and travelling fortunetellers. The plant’s fumes softened resistance to suggestion, curbed skepticism, and often loosened even the tightest of purse strings. But Brohan’s aulden blood, sparse though it was, provided some resistance to all but the weed’s cloy stink.

  “It is best to leave these matters to the king and his councilors,” Agrylon was saying. “He has most capable councilors, don’t you think? No need to second-guess their advice, or delve too deeply into their affairs.”

  “They are capable,” agreed Brohan, his voice still carefully distant, “but I have so many questions.” Just a touch of friendly defiance, he thought, to draw Agrylon out of these generalities and into more helpful specifics.

  “You must leave them unasked, for now. The king must not be bothered with questions of secrets or scandals.” Agrylon tapped out the ashes from the bowl of his pipe, content to leave Brohan sitting in expectant silence while he considered his next words. “And Calvraign,” he added finally, his voice most reasonable and calm, as if this were a trivial matter that they would surely agree upon. “I don’t think his name should be brought up overmuch, do you? There are so many painful memories for the king in that boy’s face. We should leave that be, shouldn’t we?”

  Calvraign? How deep is the lad in these schemes? And how important, that Agrylon specifically singled out his name, of all names, to safeguard. Aeolil had suggested as much, even if she hadn’t been forthcoming with the details. Brohan decided it might be time to challenge the bear. “So he is one of your secrets, after all?”

  Agrylon’s brows shot upward, pulling the skin of his temples up into a wrinkled façade above the bridge of his nose. “Calvraign?” he said, belatedly incredulous. “Of course not. I merely wish to spare the king the unkind remembrances of that day by Vlue Macc. He is in a fragile state.”

  Brohan cast a simple, silent spell with the wave of a hand, dispersing the smoke and aroma of fenyl weed from the room. All trace of amusement was gone from his smooth face. “What is your game, Agrylon?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, the menace in his tone contrasting the innocence of the words.

  “Do you paint me a fool? That boy is my apprentice, my friend, and almost like a son to me,” Brohan said. “Do you really think your half-hearted denials will deter me? He is in danger, and I won’t sit idly by while it grows greater simply for your benefit. Now, what is his part in your meddling?”

  The wizard went calmly about his business, replacing his pipe in a small leather carrying pouch, his lips and jaw securely shut. The darkening color of his face was all that betrayed his anger. Brohan felt a rare, cold rage beating in his own heart. There were not many in Providayne who would stand before Agrylon so unperturbed but, of these few, he was one.

  “I will have an answer,” he insisted.

  “You are well out of your depth, Master Bard,” warned the wizard.

  “No fear, sir,” smiled Brohan. “I can tread water for a time.”

  “You had best be in the shallows when your arms grow tired, or the current will suck you down deeper than memory.”

  “Ah, how lyrical,” quipped Brohan, undaunted, “but I know my depth, Agrylon, and I never stray far from shore. You, however, seem to be a strong and fearless swimmer – headed out to sea. No doubt you are buoyed somewhat by your hot air, but when did you last look to land?”

  The hairs on Brohan’s neck rose with a tingle as he sensed the working of a powerful spell. But Agrylon still sat, motionless.

  “Gentlemen,” said the unmistakable voice of Kassakan Vril from the empty air, and both Brohan and Agrylon jumped. “I believe this discussion has gone quite far enough. Not to mention the metaphor, I’m afraid.”

  The air shimmered between them as if a maddened swarm of fireflies had sprung suddenly into existence, and just as suddenly decided they would rather be an imposing seven-foot lizard. Brohan stood blinking and taken aback. Agrylon sprang to his feet, a spell dancing at his fingertips. If he hadn’t been so inordinately surprised himself, Brohan would have found the implacable wizard’s moment of panic quite humorous.

  “Please, don’t stand on my account,” Kassakan told the wizard, motioning at his chair. “I suppose I should have let you two banter back and forth a while longer, but I’m afraid it doesn’t serve our common purposes well.”

  “This is the king’s own bedchamber!” Agrylon seethed, his face hard as stone, but he resumed his seat.

  “Then I’m in the right place,” Kassakan said. She noticed Guillaume crumpled against the bed. “Is he all right?” she asked.

  “Agrylon helped him to sleep, but he should be fine,” said Brohan.

  “There is little time for explanation, and less for pointless posturing,” the hosskan admonished. Brohan listened, curious, but Agrylon’s attention, though intense, was less gracious. “I’ll be right to the point of the matter. Burton’s murderer is most likely a shadowyn.”

  If Kassakan noticed the change in expression on either Brohan’s or Agrylon’s face, she didn’t so much as pause to acknowledge it. “It’s likely that such a creature will be vastly more powerful on Ebhan-nuád, and I think it not a large leap in logic to assume it allied to Malakuur. Osrith and the kin are hunting for it even now, but its guise as one of Hiruld’s guardsmen is an obvious and ominous sign that the crown prince is likely in immediate peril.”

  “That’s impossible,” Agrylon sneered. “My wards -”

  “Have been compromised, I’m afraid,” Kassakan finished. “Or didn’t you just notice me traipsing around completely invisible? Your spells should guard against that, shouldn’t they? Just as they should muddle the kin priestess’ scrying pool and prevent me from hopping hither and yon through the Veil. They accomplished neither. The only places still secure are your study and Meyr ga’Glyleyn, where more ancient magic is at work.”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible,” Agrylon persisted.

  “I don’t think it matters that you see how,” said Brohan. “It matters that you see that it is.”

  Kassakan picked up the king’s limp form with care and laid him out on the bed in a more comfortable position. Brohan sat at the foot of the bed, near the king’s feet, heedless of convention. The hosskan was looking at him expectantly, and he remembered their conversation from earlier in the day. He didn’t trust Agrylon, and he doubted he would get the whole truth in return for his own honesty, but he decided not to play that game. Kassakan had been right. This was no time to play allies against each other.

  “I don’t know your plans for Calvraign, Agrylon, and for the moment I won’t ask. Hopefully, when you hear what I have to say, you will volunteer the information that I couldn’t drag from you by force.”

  For the second time that day, Brohan found himself telling all he knew about the mysterious Greycloak and Oona’s bloody vision of the Pale Man. Repeating it only increased his feeling of foreboding. The prophecy, the bonesword, the andu’ai… and now, a shad
owyn. He thought back to Artygalle’s fear of arachaemyyhl and wondered if that were so far-fetched after all.

  Agrylon hid his distress well, but Brohan was an adept at reading human expression, and he could see the signs. Two of the wizard’s long bony fingers rubbed against each other incessantly in his lap, and the very lack of expression on his face bespoke iron control that in itself betrayed his worries – why exert iron control unless there was something to hide, after all? Brohan had no doubt: the news both surprised and disturbed the wizard, even if he didn’t care to show it.

  He was less shy about expressing his irritation, however. “You should have come to me immediately!” he hissed.

  Brohan couldn’t help but laugh a little at that. “Yes, following your fine example.”

  Kassakan emitted a low sigh that was either a threat or a sign of her growing frustration, possibly both. “Before you two start slinging epithets again, please remember that time is of the essence. Is there any light you may shed on this matter involving Calvraign, Agrylon? I don’t think it prudent to deny your interest or involvement in the boy any longer.”

  “I won’t deny it, but I’m not about to spell it out for you, either. His usefulness would then be compromised, at best.”

  “By the gods, man!” Brohan spat, standing and gesticulating in barely restrained anger. “Haven’t you been listening? There’s no more time for your blasted plots! I brought him here to protect him, damn it, not to embroil him in your endless schemes. And he won’t be useful to you at all if he’s dead!” Brohan crossed over to the wizard in his chair, staring down at him, eyes brimming with challenge. “Or is that how you intend to use him? A martyr for House Jiraud like Ibhraign was before him?”

  “I will say only this,” relented Agrylon, returning Brohan’s glare with a steady gaze. “Calvraign’s father leaves him a powerful legacy, and one which is tied inexorably to the fate of Providayne, for good or ill. To say more would be dangerous.”

  “Dangerous for your plans, or for the kingdom, Agrylon?” Kassakan’s voice was still mild, but there was unmistakable reproach in her words. “This game you always play, you treat the world as if it were your own private contest of mylyr gaeal, but the consequences are greater than little pieces of ebony and ivory. You risk the destruction of the Eastern Realms, and all those who live within.”

  “In victory, risk is unavoidable.”

  Brohan pondered beating the truth out of the wizard. But, even enraged, he was not stupid. Agrylon was a power to be reckoned with, and a mage far beyond Brohan’s own ability. Besides, despite his infuriating arrogance and secrecy, he was still their ally. He had too much invested in Providayne and in the dynasty of House Jiraud to simply watch it die. Agrylon must be truly convinced that keeping his secrets was in the best interests of the kingdom – and thus himself – and however mistaken he might be, Brohan saw no way to convince him of his error.

  Black Robes are a breed apart.

  “Your mind is your own to decide, of course,” said Kassakan, “and your conscience your own to live with.”

  Brohan turned from the wizard in disgust. “What conscience?”

  “I must examine my wards, if they are indeed broken,” said Agrylon, rising and brushing small bits of soot from his dark robes. “Can you sit with the king for a bit while I’m about it?”

  Kassakan nodded.

  Agrylon left, and Brohan took his seat by the fire. “If any harm comes to Calvraign because of him, Kassakan, I’ll kill him. I swear it.”

  The hosskan nodded again, staring into the fire. “You should tell me more about your apprentice, Brohan. I’m most curious about him. Most curious, indeed.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  SALT AND COOKIES

  CALVRAIGN trailed behind Osrith like a bit of helpless flotsam in the wake of a raging storm. Thus he fared somewhat better than most of the servants they left behind. Osrith had interrupted, awakened, badgered, insulted and even physically manhandled all of Burton’s closest staff over the last hour or two. The man seemed to trust no answers, no matter how plausible, as he backtracked the entirety of both Seth’s and Burton’s day.

  It didn’t seem to be doing any good, as they hadn’t learned anything useful except that Burton had been mad and Seth was in a panic, neither of which was apparently unusual. For the most part, Calvraign kept quiet. His head hurt, his mouth was dry, and he had no idea where he was going, let alone whom he should talk to. Osrith seemed content to ignore him, leaving nothing for Calvraign but to smile apologetically in his shadow as the grizzled knight scowled his way through King’s Keep.

  They were in the kitchens now, waiting by a long stone side table for a moment with the chief steward, Markus. Servants bustled back and forth, carrying out food and bringing in spent and broken dishes, dancing with unconscious precision around and about each other. The king’s festivities were well under way now, and even with the death of Burton, the Keep continued on without pause. There was no time to grieve, or celebrate, or even to consider it – there was work to be done, a king and his court to serve. Calvraign wondered if those drinking and carousing off in the great hall even knew that Burton had died, or if they cared.

  A whole life underfoot, he thought, with some discomfort. But for an odd quirk of fate and a heroic father, I would be on the wrong side of the noble tread.

  “You don’t talk much for a bard,” observed Osrith, leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his breast. He looked almost patient, save for the fingers drumming his bicep.

  “Sorry,” apologized Calvraign immediately, feeling at a loss. Am I a bard now? he wondered. “Did you… want a story?” he ventured.

  Osrith barked out a brief laugh. “It wasn’t a complaint. I like my bards quiet.”

  “Oh.”

  “You sober yet?”

  Calvraign shook his head. “No.”

  “Better slap yourself out of it, quick-like. There’s going to be blood, and soon. Best if it’s not yours.”

  “I’m, uh, I’ve… not really had much occasion for swordplay. That’s what encouraged my thirst, I think.”

  “Yeah, well, when the swords come out, there won’t be any play about it, boy,” Osrith snarled. “Dry up and stay close. Here comes our man, so just go on back to that quiet act.”

  Calvraign saw a stocky man he thought he remembered as Markus walking upstream through the current of servants circulating around them, parting them with a glower to match Osrith’s. He limped a bit on his right leg, but just a bit, and he was dressed in surprisingly well-tailored clothes. He spread his meaty arms wide as he drew near.

  “What, damnit?” His face was severe, his tone no less so. “I’ve got a hall full of the king’s personal guests to look after. Every time I get back to work, someone else wants to come have a chat.”

  Osrith pushed himself off the wall, and in one swift step he was towering over the chief steward. A blink later, he lifted the man off the floor by a fistful of his pretty shirt. “Shut it,” Osrith snapped. “I don’t give a fig. A man’s dead. A man who owed me money. Now you find a quiet place we can talk and bring in some brown loaf and a pot of hotblack, or I’ll take the debt out of your hide here and now.”

  Osrith had been very consistent about his lie. A former mercenary tracking down a debt would be less likely to draw the attention of whomever they were seeking than investigating the killing itself.

  “How about a nice cup of tea?” seethed Markus, himself seeming ready to boil over. “I’ve plenty on hand. Perhaps a civil drink will do you some good.”

  “Hot. Black.” hissed Osrith. “Save the tea for your mother.”

  Markus, still dangling an inch or two aloft, turned to a nearby scullion. “Have a pot of hotblack brewed up, and bring it with some brown loaf and butter to the east green room. After that, I’m not to be disturbed until this filthy draough son is done with me.”

  “Yessir,” stuttered the boy before skittering off.

  Osrith put Mar
kus back on his feet. “Lead on.”

  Markus brushed his shirt down his chest, shaking his head at the inconvenience, but appearing somehow not to have been bullied into submission. He led them down the hall and away from the heat of the kitchen without a glance to either side or behind. A few clicks later, he was turning a key in the thick iron lock of a nondescript door.

  Osrith pushed him through as soon as the bolt turned, waited for Calvraign to enter, and then slammed it behind them. It was a small room, filled with herb beds along the walls and several windows of tinted fae glass that allowed in ample light but selfishly hoarded heat. It smelled of fresh greens and tilled soil. Markus was waiting beside a small table set with four stools.

  Before the echo of the closing door had even faded, Osrith’s scowl had quirked into a small, boyish, grin. “Cookie, cookie, cookie,” he said. “What a damn mess. How are you?”

  “Cookie, is it?” laughed Markus. “Been a real long time, Oz. Or should I be calling you Salty, then?”

  Osrith clapped Markus about the shoulders in a brief hug. “Actually, I never minded Salty much. Usually I’m called worse.”

  “That’s for damn sure,” agreed Markus, motioning them to sit. His eyes lingered on Calvraign, but his attention was more curious than threatening. “The court darling and the, well… you. Did Vanelorn put you in his shadow?”

  “No,” Osrith said, his eyes crinkling in thought as he turned toward Calvraign. “Aeolil. He’s not really why I’m here, though, he’s just in tow for the hotblack. I need to know about Burton, and whatever else you can tell me about what’s been going on around here.”

  “You know,” Markus drawled, scratching his cheek, “I don’t really work for you anymore. Do you have coin?”