by Ellyn, Court
“If I could take it back—”
“Oh, nonsense. We’ve both had our dose of humiliation today, so we’re even.” She suppressed a giggle. “Don’t stand there like a soldier. It doesn’t become you. Sit with me.” She gestured at the chair across the table, and Kieryn obeyed.
“To tell the truth, I saw only the last half of the races,” she added. “I took a nap after the tournament to sleep off my disgrace. Lady Genna broke her arm, did you know?”
Something tickled at Kieryn’s brain. Who brought them in … ? Rhoslyn … alone all afternoon. Would she recognize the two men if their heads were stuck on poles? If Kieryn told her that two assassins had been captured, that one was dead, how would she react?
He found himself gazing at the slender, pale hands gripping her knee, holding her foot on the chair. Garnet-dyed nails. As quickly as his suspicion had surfaced, it vanished again. “Lady Genna?” he echoed belatedly. “She was thrown.”
“Yes, and her horse had to be put down. It’s foreleg snapped. That’s why it fell.”
“And Lord Rorin’s horse and rider?” he asked, still looking at her hands.
“Who cares?”
Kieryn’s dark mood shattered and he chuckled. “You really despise him, don’t you?”
“Mmm” was all the reply she gave. Her eyes were more brown than green in the candlelight, and they swept about the library. “So this is your world,” she said with a sigh. “Books and studies. Suits you, I suppose.”
“My father thinks I’m worthless.”
“Are you?”
When he didn’t reply, Rhoslyn glanced out the window and said, “The view over your mother’s garden is lovely.”
The reminder of the garden from Rhoslyn’s own lips sent a thrill through Kieryn’s body. She had kissed him in that garden. Emptied her heart to him under the andyr tree.
She did so again. “I wish I could hide here for the next three days.”
Hide here forever… “The debates? You’re still nervous about them?”
She nodded her head, ashamed. “I feel I should take more responsibility than listening and reporting to my father. It’s the pirates, you see. They’ve plundered half-a-hundred ships the past year. I ought to tell my cousin about it, since Father is unable. Rhorek might fund the building of more patrol ships, but … his ears will be flooded as it is, what with the other lords’ demands and all. I’m … afraid of being thought a nuisance. Does that sound cowardly?”
Kieryn felt himself smiling. “If it’s cowardly, then I’m a coward, too.” Yet boldly, his hand extended across the table and took hold of Rhoslyn’s. It was a delicate, unblemished hand. His thumb pressed the center of her palm, traced the lines, the skin silken and fragrant, like lavender or … or night blossoms. “I have to be in the Hall tomorrow, too, you know,” he managed, despite the delicious dizziness flooding his head. “The younger squires aren’t allowed in, because the day’s too long and tedious. So Leshan, Kelyn, and I, and the other older squires will have to serve. If you start to panic and hyperventilate, just summon me over, and I’ll help you out the door.”
“Fainting would make a pretty scene,” she said, reclaiming her hand, so very slowly. “But if you’re there, I think I’ll be all right.”
~~~~
Three Falcon Guardsmen were placed outside Rhorek’s chamber door and three more below his windows that overlooked Alovi’s garden. Three times the normal number of men and women, drawn from Ilswythe’s militia, walked the ramparts. They investigated corridors and artisans’ shops. They questioned servants at the well and squires in the barracks and even highborns who left their chambers in the dark of night. Everyone was suspect, and no one took kindly to the sentries’ sharp interrogations. Despite Rhorek’s wishes that the incident involving the assassins be kept confidential, rumor of murderers in the dungeon spread like a blaze in a drought and spiced the breakfast gossip better than cinnamon and sugar. Fortunately, the sentries had nothing substantial to report to Captain Maegeth.
By the time the sun cleared the dragon-tooth silhouette of the Drakhan Mountains, the Great Hall resounded with the arguments of the highborns.
“The Assembly will come to order,” Master Yorin shouted. The lords and ladies, vying for first audience, reluctantly stilled their voices and took their seats at the trestle tables. White linen softened the tables, and silver candelabra provided ample light, along with the colored sun streaming through the eastern windows. Quills, inkwells, and parchment were arranged neatly upon the tables for the highborns’ convenience.
“For first audience,” the master steward continued, “His Majesty recognizes the Lady Rhoslyn.”
Her peers regarded her enviously; her cheeks blanched, and Kieryn thought she might truly faint. She glanced his direction, where he stood beneath a window awaiting orders, and he cast her a subtle wink. On her behalf he had sought a secret audience with the king. When Rhorek had risen and called for his breakfast, Kieryn intercepted the tray laden with honeyed ham, white bread, and sweet cream, and after enduring a search from the guards, he had acquainted Rhorek with Rhoslyn’s fear. By granting her first audience, Rhorek relieved his cousin of the burden of squeezing in her requests later.
Lifting her chin, Rhoslyn stood. She presented her complaint tremulously at first, and stiffly, as if she labored to remember a speech she had memorized. But soon enough, her plea roused her passion, and her words rose from the heart, “… but because trade has increased, our patrols are stretched to the limits, sire. At times we can afford to send no more than a single ballista ship to escort our merchant fleets.
“On his good days, my father dictates correspondence to the kings of Dovnya and Heret, with Prince Naovhan of the Pearl Islands and even King Shadryk of Fiera, expressing his concern that they seem to have slackened in their willingness to pursue their outlaws, which has only led to more frequent pillaging in Evaronnan waters.”
Rhorek listened gravely, and when Rhoslyn paused to quench her quaking anger, he broke in, “And you, dear cousin, request that we provide funding for the expansion of your pirate patrol?”
Rhoslyn glowed and bowed her head, grateful that he’d spared her the shame of asking. “His Majesty is most perceptive.”
“And willing to help. As Evaronna is our only means to the sea, this matter is most important to our welfare. Therefore, cousin, you will receive your funding, but, as to how much assistance may be spared for you, we must wait until Last Day when all needs have been taken into account.”
“Thank you, sire.” Rhoslyn curtsied humbly, and resuming her seat, she crooked her finger in Kieryn’s direction. To remain unobtrusive as squires were expected to be, he dropped to one knee beside her chair. “What did you do?” she whispered, flushed now from her bosom to the tips of her ears.
Kieryn’s heart nearly choked him at the sight of her happiness and gratitude. “Do?” he echoed guilelessly. “His Majesty favors you.”
“As do you.”
Beside Rhoslyn, the Princess Rilyth pretended to hearken to the dais, but her eyes darted away from the pair when Kieryn glanced her direction. He had half a mind to tell Rhoslyn aloud, Yes, always, and only you forever, just to see the Princess’s reaction, but instead he asked, “Would m’ lady prefer a sweet red to still her nerves?”
“My nerves are wondrously still,” she replied, hazel eyes shamelessly adoring him, “but wine would be lovely anyway.”
On the dais, Rhorek was saying, “And concerning our resources, we must recognize Lord Kassen. Before any more ‘assistance’ is called for, let us have a clear picture of the state of our treasury.”
Lord Thyrvael gained his feet. Once tall and elegant, Kassen was now stooped and wan. For the past couple of years he had been fighting a raspy cough, so smelled of the lemon-and-liquor tonic that his physicians prescribed him. He had outlived his sons and daughters, and according to rumor, had adopted in their stead every dwarf who worked in his mines. Proudly he announced, “Sire, Aralorr’s tr
easury has never been so full. I corresponded with you this past fall concerning the prodigious lode of silver my dwarves discovered in the east tunnels of Snowcrest, and even now they continue excavating their find. This prosperity may be short-lived, however, for Brugge, my foreman, has informed me of a rather startling development. If I may, sire?”
Rhorek waved him on.
“Yes,” Kassen proceeded, running a gnarled hand over his sparse white hair. “Brugge tells me that his cousin, of the Drakhan Mountains, has stumbled onto a vein of gold, which he believes stems from the rich veins of the Shaddrah Valley. Now, the Drakhan dwarves have been excavating the gold over the past months and may intend to introduce their new-found wealth in trade with us, which, unfortunately, would decrease the value of our silver. If this happens, meaning if this strain of gold develops into a large cache, then Your Majesty may be unable to provide as much assistance as you would desire.”
A grumbling issued from the tables of highborns. They knew well the stone-cold, business-minded temperament of the dwarves. Their primary occupation was to amass vast wealth for themselves and defend it to the last dwarf standing. They had little care whether their enterprises helped or hurt other races. And once they had determined their course, dwarves were as inexorable as stone, moved only after much picking and chipping. If the dwarves of the Drakhan Mountains had determined to begin trading gold for goods, the Leanians and the Fierans would rush to an alliance with the gold miners to gain the advantage over silver-rich Aralorr.
When the grumbling died down, Rhorek jested dryly, “How can we get our hands on some of this gold? Are we to take up the trade of gold thief?” He lifted the golden crown from his head, scrutinized it playfully, then set it on the table before him. As the only known gold deposits lay in the remote Valley of the Faithful, the golden crown was especially rare and valuable.
The highborns snickered at the suggestion.
“Now, now,” he quieted them, “on a serious note. Kassen, do you know if this gold mine is on the Shaddrani side of the Divide or the Aralorri side?”
“Brugge wasn’t certain where the mine was located, sire, but I shall inquire and send you word.”
“Rightly done. So until we know for certain whether we may justifiably lay claim to a portion of this gold, we can do little but see what develops. At any rate, are we right in assuming that our silver will retain its present value for the following year?”
“I believe that is a safe assumption, sire.”
“Very well, let us proceed.”
The squires, servants, and stewards bustled from one corner of the Hall to the other, answering the summons of an uplifted hand or a subtle nod. They poured wine into silver goblets, fetched silverthorn powder for headaches, and sharpened quills for note-taking. Kieryn’s feet ached from hurrying hither and yon; his mother’s choice of shoes didn’t compare to the comfort of his broken-in riding boots. At least he was kept too busy to dwindle into boredom.
At noon, the Assembly broke, and Nelda presented the highborns a lunch of chilled fruits, cold meats, and andyr nuts glazed with honey, apparently of a mind that cool dishes might help cool the tempers that had begun to flare.
Because the highborns’ patience had grown short, the squires redoubled their efforts at politeness and speed. Kieryn balanced a bowl of sugared cream for Princess Mazél’s chilled fruit and wound a course from the kitchens to her table. A servant with a wine flask turned abruptly and collided with the bowl; both red wine and white cream splashed down the servant’s doublet. The man glared with undisguised malice, and Kieryn almost felt obliged to beg forgiveness from a menial servant. Instead, he bent to help the man retrieve his flask.
“Pardon me, my lord,” the man said stonily. The pox-scars marring his face made him appear older than he might be, and one of his earlobes was shredded, as if it had sported a ring that had been ripped out. On his soiled doublet he wore the red andyr tree of Locmar.
“No harm done,” Kieryn replied. But at the next table, Lord Athlem lowered a vexed eye on his man, then gulped more of a bitter silverthorn solution. “I hope he’s not displeased with you.”
The servant took his flask, gave Kieryn a tight-lipped smile, then hurried away. Kieryn apologized to Princess Mazél and assured her he would return with another bowl. Grace, he chided himself. Across the Hall, Kelyn paused in his duties and cast him a reproachful shake of the head. At the high table, Alovi’s mouth had gone tight. Didn’t I teach you better than this? He could almost hear her. That pinching throb started low in his head again. He rubbed the nape of his neck and promised himself a dose of silverthorn as soon as he found a moment to breathe. How in the great black Abyss was he to survive the rest of the week?
After luncheon, Lander of Tírandon was granted the floor. He thanked Rhorek for finally recognizing him, “for I believe the trouble that we face along the border is the most dire of all.”
Lander always considered his problems the most dire of all. “Your sheep?” Rhorek guessed.
Lander huffed, offended that the king should disparage the gravity of the issue. “Well, yes, sire. Sheep. In the past year, the Fierans have increased their raids across the Bryna with unprecedented frequency. Many of my people have lost nearly everything. And my captains in the river forts are exhausted, outnumbered, and fed up.”
The highborns were generally satisfied after their meal, and the squires, having served their purpose for the nonce, stood idly waiting. Kieryn found his brother standing opposite him under the facing window. Kelyn looked bored out of his mind and tossed a rude gesture at his brother, which was all he could think of to entertain himself; Kieryn rolled his eyes at his twin’s hopeless adolescence. Half the highborns seemed as bored by Lander’s tired old complaint. Lords Davhin and Rorin whispered among themselves, and Lord Galt, fat and replete, no longer fought an urge to nap. His head rolled onto the back of his chair and his blubbery neck jiggled with a snore until Lady Maeret nudged him in disgust. But Rhoslyn, whose ears had yet to grow tired of Lander’s argument, listened closely, for his concern echoed her own.
“Last year I made a request,” he continued, “for a hundred more men-at-arms to be divided among the four river forts, but I was denied, and most unwisely.” Lander’s accusation grabbed every strand of straying attention. Even Galt sat up straight and swiped drool from his chin with a grease-stained sleeve. “Because of Your Majesty’s lack of care in providing the means for increased vigilance,” Lander added, “the Fierans from Athmar and Ulmarr have become relentless, raiding at least once a month, instead of the usual four or five times a year. My people’s sheep are slowly vanishing. Soon they will be starving for lack of meat and woolen goods to trade.”
Leshan stood near Kieryn under the adjacent window. His dark eyes darted between his father and the king. Leshan had lived at Ilswythe since his tenth year, and Kieryn knew him as well as he knew Kelyn and loved him almost as much. He would inherit the problems Lander now faced and seemed alarmed by his father’s tone and the king’s forced patience. Milder than Lord Lander, Leshan preferred to avoid confrontation, which made him nervous and ingratiating. As a squire, he would’ve jumped from Ilswythe’s highest tower if it would’ve prevented his lord or lady from becoming angry with him. And here was the Black Falcon angry with his father.
With Leshan distressed and distracted, Kieryn scanned the tables, looking for any sudden need. But like Leshan, the highborns were enthralled by what quickly became a battle of wills. Even Kelyn was caught up by it. A handful of servants drifted among the tables, filling goblets and taking away belatedly emptied plates. One was the man Kieryn had collided with; he wore a white apron over the stain and didn’t seem at all happy. Maybe I should’ve apologized, Kieryn thought.
Rile him, yes.
Kieryn blinked, hand going to the ache in the back of his head. He asked Leshan, “Rile whom?”
Leshan was reluctant to divide his attention. “What? Yes, my father is riled. He’s about to foam at the mouth.�
�� Overbearing dog . . .
Kieryn had heard it, but he hadn’t seen it—Leshan cursing his father without opening his mouth. Ludicrous. And this pain in his head, pinching, throbbing, humming. It was about to make him nauseous.
Athlem of Locmar had risen, and when the king recognized him, he contributed, “The Fierans have also taken to stealing our lumber in the dead of night, snatching it right out of the Ristbrooke above the mills. We have seen them shipping it overland toward Nithmar, where we can only assume they process it for themselves.”
Athlem’s scar-eared servant paused with his flask, regarded his lord with an expression that might’ve been contempt or pity. Kieryn feared the man might dare speak out of place and defend Athlem’s argument. But when the king offered his reply, the servant resumed his duty, filling Lady Maeret’s goblet to the brim.
Careless, thought Kieryn.
Maeret scowled at the goblet, so full she couldn’t lift it. Idiot.
The servant moved on. Twit.
Kieryn smashed his hands over his ears. Goddess above, what was happening? Their mouths didn’t move, yet the words echoed inside his head. And where was that buzzing coming from? Like the droning of bees, the sound nearly drowned out Rhorek’s retort—“Who has seen this, Athlem? Did you send men into Fiera uninvited? No matter what the provocation, if we are to keep the peace with the Fierans, you must obtain permission to enter their realm. This timber they stole, did it float near our bank of the Ristbrooke, or theirs? Did your lumberjacks take a care to keep it from scattering? That river does not belong exclusively to us. Before your family took Locmar, that land was theirs, and as far as I can see, you’ve done little enough to protect it.” Rhorek’s face burned red behind his graying beard. His left hand went to his right shoulder, squeezed gingerly … take me for a fool … Athlem Lander …
… dare he say I don’t protect …