In Siege of Daylight

by Gregory S Close

  “Why would they care about Burton, though?” Calvraign asked.

  Osrith spread his hands and smiled. “The Church cares about everyone, didn’t you know?” He snorted, as if disgusted with his own joke, and pulled the door open with a heave. “Forget about the servant girls. Let’s invite ourselves to vespers.”

  Callagh watched after him as he stormed past her into the vestibule, startling the lancers stationed on guard by the inner door, and then she turned back to Calvraign. “What a cockersnipe,” she said, hefting the cider back to her shoulder. “I think I might like him.”

  “Aye,” Calvraign agreed with a smile, rushing past her to keep up. “You would.”

  Adopting her meekest affect, Callagh followed and then pressed past them through the door to Lord Malminnion’s receiving chamber. The guards offered Osrith and Calvraign a civil but wary challenge, holding them behind her with crossed halberds.

  Ezriel’s tastes were perhaps best described as martial. Aside from the collection of swords hanging about the perimeter of the room, there was no décor to speak of. The table was unremarkable: a long oval that could seat perhaps two-dozen men comfortably, although now it sat only four, all bunched at the near end. Each place setting was of polished black stone – a plate and a goblet – but there was no centerpiece save a pair of discarded gauntlets.

  Ezriel looked up from his conversation with the others long enough to catch her with his ice-blue gaze, but his eyes were quickly drawn to the commotion behind her.

  “What’s amiss?” he demanded with quiet authority.

  Callagh set the cider down and folded her hands in front of her waist. It was easy to act abashed under his scrutiny, but it still chafed her.

  “Milord,” she responded, eyes downcast. “There are knights to see you.”

  “I have no time for knights,” he said, turning back to the other three men at the table. “Tap the cider. I have a thirst.”

  He’s not even going to let them in, she realized. “M’Lord,” she repeated, trying to make her voice shake just a bit, for effect. “Please, may I have leave to speak?”

  Ezriel turned back again. His face remained calm, but his eyes were a threat of lightning amidst an ominous thunderhead. “Quickly,” he said with a nod of assent. The other men frowned in impatience.

  “Milord, I overheard them speaking of Castellan Burton, and hoping for guidance from the Holy Church. I only thought you should know, milord. Thank you.” She curtsied and withdrew in one motion, backing to the side table to tap the cider barrel.

  “Now they come groveling to Mother Church,” the archbishop sneered. “We should let them stew a bit longer.”

  “Agreed. I prefer my stew when the meat falls off the bone,” added Tuoerval. “No hurry.”

  “If helping them will help the prince, then help them we must,” the last man said. “Bickering is pointless.”

  “I suppose you are right, Bellivue,” Ezriel agreed, with some reluctance. “This isn’t the time for old feuds to poison the well, Elgin. Whatever our concerns with Guillaume, and regardless what plots Agrylon has at work, we know that the enemy readies to strike, and we must resolve to stop it.”

  “It won’t be so simple, Ezriel,” cautioned Renarre. “Always, you think it so simple. But there is no simple now.”

  Ezriel held up a conciliatory hand. “I know. While I respect your judgment, this is my hall, and now the seat of House Malminnion in Dwynleigsh. I will grant them a brief audience.” He turned to the door. “Guards. Admit them.”

  Callagh had poured some cider into a large flagon and then poured some into each goblet before setting it on the table and retreating. She watched Osrith and Calvraign enter with careful, surreptitious glances. Sir Osrith was imposing, and Calvraign struck a dashing figure in his knightly attire. Aside from affection, she felt some pride at how he carried himself, and a small bit of surprise as well.

  Have we both grown up in the space of a ten-day? she thought.

  “Your Grace,” Osrith said with a dip of the chin to Ezriel, and then acknowledged the others at the table. “Your Holiness. Sirs.” She could see in his eyes that such deference did not come easily to him.

  Osrith’s gaze lingered on the one called Bellivue with uncomfortable intensity. Silence answered him, and Callagh stood back to observe the range of reactions from the seated men. Most of it was less than positive.

  “Osrith Turlun,” Tuoerval said, low and menacing like a threat. “I thought the earth had swallowed you up for good. It deserves another chance.”

  “You’re an odd one to send for guidance from the Church,” said Renarre with less obvious venom, even if his look was more poisonous still. “Did Agrylon send you and his new pet just to stir up my bile?”

  “But I’ve never even met Agrylon,” protested Calvraign, his voice trailing off as he shook his head in frustration.

  “Sheathe your tongues,” Ezriel demanded with frozen calm, and stood abruptly. “These are knights, and my guests. We owe them courtesy if nothing else.”

  “Courtesy?” Tuoerval scoffed. “He showed me none at Vlue Macc. I was bound and gagged and very nearly-”

  “I almost regret not letting Malgleish finish you off,” Osrith interjected. “But it was all or nothing, and I liked Hestan ne Vae. That was a long time ago, and I’m not here to quibble which side I was on in every battle I’ve ever fought.”

  “Then why are you here?” inquired Ezriel.

  “Same as you lot. Sir Calvraign and I were tracking down Mister Briggin’s account of things. Little did we know that the Church was already about it, with the help of no less than the prince’s own herald.” Osrith shook his head in mock chagrin. “Imagine how silly we feel. Late to the party and all.”

  “Let’s play no games,” sighed Bellivue, his shoulders hunched and his expression downcast. “I am not here at the prince’s direction. I have come of my own will to Ezriel, whom I trust greatly, because I fear that Hiruld’s interests are not best looked after by his father or the wizard. They are deep in their own plots. I promised Vingeaux I would look after Hiruld, wherever and however I was able.”

  “Touching,” noted Osrith, equal parts sarcastic and bitter. “I’m sure Sir Calvraign knows a song or two about well-intentioned betrayals and such. Ask him how many end well.”

  “Actually, sirs,” Calvraign said, stepping up shoulder to shoulder with Osrith, “we’re here for much the same reason as Sir Bellivue. If he has breached some implicit trust of the prince by speaking to you here, then we now share that distinction.”

  Osrith rolled his eyes, but waited in silence as Calvraign continued. “Your Holiness, I’m not much for politics. I know only that I don’t know enough and no amount of training substitutes for experience within the fray. So I will speak plain to you. I do not know what Agrylon wishes of me, or how that might trouble the Church. But on my father’s tomb, spear and sword, I swear to you that I’ve no designs other than to serve the king and this kingdom.”

  It took everything in Callagh’s power to keep a smile off of her face. Watching Calvraign speak so confidently and so quickly, and in such company, vindicated her faith in him and stirred her pride. At the same time, she fought off a flush of embarrassment with a wince. He sounds so bloody pretentious, she thought.

  “Touching,” Renarre responded, taking a moment to smirk at Osrith before turning his attention back to Calvraign. “I suppose your master has had you practice that speech for years. You deliver it well, I’ll admit. At least as well as you sing of gooseberries. Both carry the same weight for me, boy. Save your breath.”

  Sir Bellivue rose, gathering his gauntlets from the table. “I’ve been through this already, and I haven’t the stomach to hear it again. I will make my recommendation to Vanelorn and Willanel. Perhaps at the very least we’ll be working toward the same end, if through different means.” He pressed past Osrith and Calvraign at a brisk walk. “Gods save us all,” he added, but without vigor.

  “B
ellivue,” Ezriel called after him, stopping him in mid-step at the door. “My thanks for trying. I will speak with you on the morrow.”

  The herald turned and smiled sadly. “On the morrow, then, my friend,” he said, and left.

  Ezriel turned back to Renarre, “You would damn a candle for faint flame even if it were the last light left in the world.”

  “Metaphor doesn’t suit you any more than subtlety, Ezriel,” dismissed Renarre. “Stick to what you know.”

  “I know the Law of Swords,” persisted Ezriel, “and I should not need to remind you. A blade drawn in honor shall so be honored until tainted. What the sword earns, words cannot take away.

  “The sword he carries has defended this realm, the lands of my House, and the old tribes of the Crehr before that. Tremayne mentioned the boy on the road, and spoke well of him and Ibhraign, his father. That is what I know, Your Holiness.”

  “Ah, the Dragonheart.” Renarre chuckled the name and dusted imaginary lint from his stately robes.

  Callagh stomach lurched. Calvraign blinked away a tear of anger, and his mouth worked silently over words that would not come. For their entire life, the name of Ibhraign was synonymous with hero among the Cythe. To impugn that fundamental truth was unthinkable for her, and she imagined even more so for his only son.

  “A convenient hero for an inconvenient war,” continued the archbishop. “Give the barbarians a hero. Someone they can be proud of. Someone loyal to the king.” He paused. “Someone to bring them in line. I can hear Agrylon whispering in the royal ear now.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve underestimated the worth of my father and me,” Calvraign said, but his voice was flat and devoid of emotion. The surprise and the anger were gone from him, or at least well hidden. “A much wiser man than you once observed that it is the life of a man that makes him, not his end. Ibhraign Askewneheur was a good man long before he was called Dragonheart. If there was some political advantage taken in his death, or in the telling of his legend, it does not diminish my father or the value of his life.

  “But it is rather ironic,” Calvraign said, shaking his head with a sad smile, “that making such an implication diminishes you. I could call you out to a duel for such affront. Challenge you to settle our score with steel.”

  The archbishop took a deep breath and nodded. “That is your right, of course. Do what you feel you must, for your honor.”

  “I see.” Calvraign approached the table, rubbing his chin in thought. “You insult me, the simple barbarian, probe my weakness by questioning my father and my family honor. My temper will get the best of me, and I’ll issue a challenge as the heat of my blood boils away reason. You would defer the duel, of course, and appoint a champion. Yes?”

  Renarre’s expression hardened. “That is my right.”

  “Of course it is, Your Holiness. And you have quite the stock of knighthood to throw at me, don’t you?”

  Callagh could see the light in Calvraign’s eyes as strategies raced through his head. She guessed where his maneuver likely led. From the confused expressions surrounding her, no one else seemed to.

  Calvraign reached the archbishop’s seat, standing perhaps a bit too close to be entirely respectful of his station. “There are any number of battle-tested lancers at your disposal, including both Sir Tuoerval and Lord Malminnion. One, too old to risk; the other, far too high of rank, and perhaps less likely to agree, on principle.”

  “You enjoy hearing yourself speak, don’t you?” sniped Renarre.

  Calvraign didn’t acknowledge the slight. “But of course, you don’t really know my experience, do you? Are the stories true? Are they half-true? Might I be a match for your best, as my father doubtless was?”

  Renarre snorted.

  “But you have a Light Ascendant hidden in your hand – a trump card waiting to be played. How might I react if it is not some faceless lancer you send my way, but a trusted, and wounded, friend? A friend here for his own cause, surely which is known to you as well as me. Do I sacrifice his noble goal for my selfish honor? Do I perhaps fight below my best to spare him further harm? Oh, the doubts alone would certainly affect the battle. And, perhaps more importantly, forever shape our friendship, whether in victory or defeat.

  “You thought that rather ingenious, didn’t you? I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I will not deliver myself into such a trap. In fact, I will save you the trouble of thinking any further on plotting such outcomes. Were I to challenge you, and were you to defer, I too would appoint a champion. Sir Osrith would fight my battle and defend my family honor.”

  Osrith straightened, blinking in surprise. Renarre flinched, as if he’d been pinched under the table, shifting in his seat and rearranging his robes.

  “We both know he would accept such duty simply for the pleasure of inconveniencing you and embarrassing the Church. Would Artygalle be a match for him? Would Osrith even blink in concern over whose mission is most noble, or worry over tender mercies or friendships?

  “Your words are only words. My father is a legend. We shall see what truth survives over time. For now, I will save you the embarrassment of watching it proven true by the Law of Swords before the gathered throngs of the festival. I issue no challenge.”

  “You are not half as clever as you think,” protested the archbishop.

  Callagh saw the fear and doubt in the Fox’s expression, however – drawn and blanched like bleached parchment over his face. Oh, you did underestimate, him, she thought. But now he’s tipped his hand, and you won’t be so foolish again. Ah, Cal, ever in a rush for the nexus.

  “Well, I don’t know how clever he thinks he is,” Osrith stated. “But he’s about twice as clever as I thought.”

  “Doubtless you are clever,” Ezriel put in. “I fail to see the point of this discussion, however.”

  “The point, Lord Malminnion, is that I’ve no wish to make of myself an enemy, or take advantage of you. Since I’ve been here, I feel either over my head or on top of the world, but in neither instance with any ill intent. Can we not help each other find Burton’s killer? Can we not help save the prince, and put aside other matters, other disagreements, for later?”

  “You have an odd way of trying to gain our trust,” objected Tuoerval.

  Calvraign thought for a moment. “You judge Sir Osrith based on his past acts. You consider him untrustworthy now for whatever dishonor you imagine then. So what of me? You fought at Vlue Macc, as did my father. Did he fight with honor?”

  Tuoerval chewed on his lip, looking away from the archbishop before grunting, “He did.”

  “Why is it your bitterness follows Sir Osrith to the present, but your respect does not follow my father’s memory?“

  Tuoerval only shook his head, staring down at the table.

  “You speak of honor, and eloquently,” Ezriel said to Calvraign. “I hope you prove as true as your words, young knight. So, what I know I will tell you, just as I told Bellivue. If you were our enemy, what we know would already be known to you and of little consequence.

  “We have long watched Inulf. Some make little secret of that distrust.” He indicated Tuoerval with a fleeting look. “Of late, his acts have been more and more suspicious. He has disappeared for some odd stretches of time, dismissed knights from the Prince’s Guard with nary an explanation. And one such disappearance was at the time of Burton’s murder, and he has yet to be found, despite our best efforts as well as Sir Bellivue’s.

  “In truth, I dislike Inulf, and I always have. He is gods-less and profane. But I have never had occasion to question his loyalty, and I do not do so now in light spirit. There is a shadow fallen across this keep, and he is either a part of it or victim of it.”

  “Fair enough,” said Osrith. “So what do you suggest, then?”

  “The captain of the Prince’s Guard cannot be trusted with the prince’s life, and as we can rule none of them out, his men are also suspect. There is only one sane course.”

  “Replace the Prince’s Guard,
” surmised Calvraign.

  “With lancers, no doubt,” added Osrith.

  “Willanel has suggested the same course, with his men, I’m sure,” defended Ezriel. “As perhaps would Inulf, were he attendant to the prince and not gone astray. What did you suggest to Lady Evynine after Hestan and Andrew were slain, Sir Turlun?”

  Callagh did not know to what Ezriel referred, but the ghosts that haunted Osrith’s face showed he did. Calvraign looked away, too. What does he know about it?

  “Bellivue has suspected a traitor in the guard since Vingeaux’s death,” pressed Ezriel, not waiting for a response. “That ambush was no accident, and most of the surviving knights now protect Hiruld. As much as it may seem self-serving, a guard made up of lancers, sworn to the Church above all and not to any rival House, would seem prudent.”

  “If you see an alternative, of course,” Renarre said, almost taunting, “a House with suitable knights trained to the task, not beholden to personal or political interest and ready to relieve the Prince’s Guard, you may suggest it. We only want what is best for the prince. We discussed with Bellivue at great length, and even he agreed – we did not see any other option.”

  Calvraign and Osrith looked up as one, sharing a subdued smile.

  “Yeah,” Osrith said, tapping his right hand to his midriff, parallel to the floor. “Well, maybe you weren’t looking low enough.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  OUT ON A LIMB

  BLOODHAWK watched in silence.

  It was not safe in the Ceearmyltu Grove. Half-aulden and a wilhorwhyr, he still knew his limits. Although the treesingers and the ilyela were his allies, and apparently the High Blade, he took nothing else for granted. Even with his lore and Jylkir’s assistance, he could not hide long amongst an aulden tribe mobilizing for war.

  The Macc encampment proved less a test of skill, however. The Ceearmyltu had relegated Ruoughn, Lombarde, and their soldiers well outside the Grove, and the eyes of the human sentries were not so keen. The Macc warriors stood leaning on their spears, relaxed and joking. They were celebrating and confident in their new alliance, even as he crept, inch by inch, deeper into their midst.