by Cara Witter
Nikaenor grinned, looping his thumbs under the embroidered leather belt that cinched around a crisp red tunic. “Dashing, isn’t it?”
“Quite,” she said, before arching a teasing eyebrow at Kenton. “None of the clothes were to your liking, I take it?” She looked pointedly over his worn tunic and breeches, the same ones he wore while traveling.
Kenton shrugged. “I’m a personal guard. I’m not going to strut around in bright colors like a walking target.”
“Pity,” she said. “I would have liked to see what you looked like all dressed up.”
That was enough to make Kenton reconsider, but he could hardly go back on it now.
“I’m not strutting,” Nikaenor said. He tapped his foot. “I wonder what’s taking the others so long.”
“Sayvil was finishing sorting her herbs when I left—right on the vanity table. I haven’t seen Jaeme and Daniella, but I can imagine what they’re up to.”
Kenton could as well, and wished, not for the first time, that either of them felt that finding Kotali was even close to as important as another tumble.
Nikaenor eyed the stairs impatiently, obviously dying to explore the castle in full. “I’ll go find them, let them know we’re waiting.”
“I’m not sure—” Perchaya said, but Kenton cut her off.
“Great idea,” he said. “We’ll wait here.” And he let Nikaenor run off to interrupt their obnoxiously-timed romp. Hadn’t the hour before Jaeme had asked them to gather been enough?
Kenton shifted his weight, feeling uncomfortable standing there alone with Perchaya. He’d never felt so before, in all the time they had spent together. But now he found himself quite suddenly at a loss for something to say.
Perchaya, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be suffering from that affliction. She walked to one of the long, thin windows, and looked out through the mottled glass. “I hope Jaeme takes us out into the rose gardens. I saw them from the window of my room. They remind me of my youngest sister, Camilla. When she was five or six, she begged my parents to plant her a rose garden.”
Kenton raised his eyebrows. That would be quite the extravagance for a farming family like hers. “And did they?”
“They did,” Perchaya said with a grin. “It was impossible to say no to her. She was so thrilled. She named every rose that bloomed that spring, made up stories about them and everything. One night, though, there was a big thunderstorm. When I woke up the next morning, our room was covered in rose bushes, torn right out of the ground, with mud all over the place. Camilla was wrapped up in blankets, soaking wet and shivering from having been out the night before uprooting all her flowers. She’d saved them from the storm, every single one. She was so proud that I couldn’t be angry at her.”
Perchaya stared at the glass, lost in the memory. A strand of hair had worked its way free from the braid, trailing down the side of her face, and Kenton imagined reaching up to gently place it behind her ear, stroking her fair cheek. He swallowed instead, keeping his hands firmly at his belt. “And your parents? What did they do?”
“They weren’t happy about it. But despite how foolish it was, I still think there was something so brave about it. This little girl, running out into a raging thunderstorm all alone, hurting her hands and nearly freezing to save these defenseless flowers. It just strikes me as real courage.”
Kenton nodded thoughtfully. “You and your sister are not so very different.”
Perchaya looked back up at him, and his heart beat even faster. “Thank you.” She bit her lip. “I can’t help but wonder, though, if I did exactly the same thing in Ithale. Convincing those people to revolt to save you and Nikaenor. It cost the lives of so many . . . It might have been courage, but it might have also been needless. Maybe there was a better way.”
Her voice had turned so sad that it pained him to hear. He wasn’t sure that she would ever be free of the guilt of Ithale, even though they had succeeded, even though the townspeople had risked their lives willingly. He rested his hand gently on her arm, just above the elbow. “I worry about that, too,” he said, pitching his voice low so as not to let his words echo in the vaulted entryway. “I worry that I’m leading everyone to their deaths, and that we won’t succeed because of some failure of mine, some oversight or miscalculation, and then the world itself is lost. But we can’t think that way. We can only do the bravest, best thing we know to do. It might end up being wrong, but we won’t know until it’s over, for better or worse.”
Perchaya nodded at his words. “You’re right,” she said softly. After a thoughtful moment, she smiled, returning her demeanor to its usual brightness. “Anyway,” she continued with a laugh, “If you ever meet Camilla, don’t tell her I told you. She gets terribly cross about it. Probably because we teased her about it mercilessly.”
The idea of meeting her family was a pleasant one, and he was about to say so when a chatter of voices sounded from the top of the stairs. Daniella and Jaeme didn’t look either annoyed or disheveled, so perhaps Nikaenor’s timing hadn’t been so horrific after all. They both were both also in new clothing, a red and gold tunic for Jaeme and a gold dress trimmed at the neck and sleeves with lace for Daniella.
“Lord Jaeme,” Perchaya said with a smile as they descended the stairs. “How are you going to respond to the rumors about this misfit group of company you keep?”
“I’ve given up traveling alone,” Jaeme said, his arm around Daniella’s waist. “It’s so much more interesting to pick up stragglers wherever I go.”
Sayvil descended the stairs last, wearing a blue dress that dragged a bit on the stones. She walked stiffly as if it were made of a slimy seaweed that might tear off at any moment.
“Nice dress,” Kenton said to her.
Sayvil rolled her eyes. “The corset is so tight I think I might vomit.”
Nikaenor took a huge step away from her, and both Jaeme and Daniella laughed, but Kenton noticed Perchaya looking at him with a sad expression on her face. He hoped she wasn’t still thinking about Ithale.
Jaeme began their tour by bringing them to the banquet hall, passing through a double-doorway of carved oak similar to that of the entrance. The banquet hall was of a moderate size, with a high ceiling that made it appear larger than it really was. Banners of different colors and crests hung from hooks high on the walls, although there were numerous empty hooks awaiting adornment. Kenton recognized some of the crests from the smaller banners beside the guest chambers, and Jaeme confirmed his guess that these were displays of the nobility currently staying at the castle.
“Daniella,” Kenton said. “I was wondering if you knew the age of the castle. It’s not as old as the Banishment, is it?”
Jaeme shot a look in Kenton’s direction. “Daniella isn’t the one who grew up here. It was built in the year five hundred of the Banishment era. Why do you ask?”
“Ah,” Kenton said. “So there can’t be any Banishment era artifacts lying around in it, can there? Perhaps we should continue the tour outside.”
“The castle it’s built on was here before, though,” Daniella said. “Lord Turtrow the Seventh had the ruins cleared after the castle was leveled in the skirmish with—” She noticed Jaeme staring at her and stopped. “What?”
Jaeme opened his mouth, then shut it again.
“He was expecting to be the expert here,” Sayvil said.
Daniella poked Jaeme in the ribs. “Sorry. You tell it.”
“She’s right,” Jaeme said with a sigh. “Some of the foundation is original.”
“Excellent,” Kenton said. “Let’s tour the basement.”
“I’d like to see the rest of the place first,” Daniella declared, walking along one wall of the banquet hall. Jaeme looked relieved and followed her, his arm still gracing her waist.
Kenton turned toward the room and stared at it. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be l
earning here, but apparently there was nothing for him to do but look. A considerable hearth that dominated one wall warmed the room nicely. Long, narrow windows were spaced evenly along another wall, all paned with an opaque glass that muted the shafts of sunlight falling onto one of the long wooden tables that stretched nearly the length of the room.
Nikaenor paused in front of a particularly large tapestry, which depicted an elaborate battle between several knights and a woltrecht—one of the great scaled beasts that lived in the mountains in northern Andronim. The weaver had used a particularly bright red for the blood of the woltrecht, which was as close to the color of human blood as Kenton had ever seen in a tapestry.
“It’s a Great Northbeast,” Nikaenor said. He turned around to Jaeme. “Have you ever fought one?”
“Tons,” Jaeme said. “Once I killed three of them before breakfast.”
Even Nikaenor apparently couldn’t believe that, and looked crestfallen.
“We’ll have the tournament banquets in here,” Jaeme said, turning back to the room. “We should have given the rest of you fake titles, so you’d be able to attend. Though there’s no entertainment at meals during the tournament. Just a lot of dukes talking about how much better they are than each other.”
“Why would they change it for tournament?” Nikaenor asked. “Wouldn’t they want to have the best entertainment for something like that?”
Jaeme’s expression grew grave. “It used to be so, but it became too extravagant, each duchy trying to outdo the banquet feasts of the year before. One tragic mishap with a group of flame-jugglers and a few terribly alarmed dancing bears, and . . . well, it’s no wonder Chertov is called the ‘duchy of death.’” He shook his head. “They never did find Duke Hefrek’s head,” he murmured. “Or the rest of him, for that matter.”
Nikaenor looked aghast. “Really?”
The mischievous gleam in Jaeme’s eyes betrayed him even before his expression slipped into a grin. Sayvil and Perchaya groaned, and Jaeme held up his hands in defense as Daniella swatted at him playfully.
“All right,” he said. “I promise to keep my stories reasonably close to truth for the rest of the tour. Anyway, about the entertainment—it’s just tournament tradition, that’s all. I imagine being forced to talk during the meal is supposed to encourage brotherhood and friendly conversation. In practice, the results are less than friendly.”
The sound of boots entering the hall turned their attention back toward the open doors and Kenton was less than thrilled to see Duke Hughsen walk into the room. “Don’t believe a word this scoundrel tells you,” the duke said, with only a faint trace of a Mortichean accent. “Jaeme has a flair for the creative.”
“Don’t worry, Hugh,” Jaeme said. “Daniella has long since discovered that.”
Hugh smiled at Daniella. “How are you finding the accommodations in Grisham?”
“Lovely,” Daniella said. “Quite a relief after the time on the road.”
The others nodded their agreement, even Nikaenor. Kenton had now seen the barrack, and he thought calling it lovely was a stretch.
Hugh, now, was looking at Perchaya with that same lecherous look on his face that he’d had on the castle steps. It was all Kenton could do to keep from stepping between them. He imagined women would find Hugh attractive—the man had the bronzed skin typical of Southern Mortiche, his dark hair perfectly coiffed, his face clean-shaven and his fine tunic well-fitted. But all this only made Kenton trust him even less.
“Perhaps I should accompany you on your tour,” Hugh said. “If only to ensure that you’re not misleading your guest about your true character.” He stepped over to Perchaya and offered her his arm. After a brief pause, she took it.
Kenton’s hand went unconsciously to the hilt of his sword again. It wasn’t Daniella Kenton was worried might be misled. He was trying to figure out how to say so and maintain the illusion of being Daniella’s guard, when Jaeme offered his arm to Daniella again.
“Ha,” Jaeme said, leading her toward the hall. “I’m afraid she’s all too aware. Come on. Next is the library.”
Daniella gave a little skip as they left the room, and Hugh followed with Perchaya on his arm.
Sayvil put her hand on Kenton’s arm. “Escort me like a gentleman,” she said. “And try not to burst a vein. I don’t have a circulatory poultice handy.”
Kenton stared at her. Why would she think—had he obviously been—
Sayvil forcibly dragged him forward. Nikaenor scampered ahead of them, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was now the only one not acting as an escort.
“I know you’re anxious to finish the job,” Sayvil said quietly. “But you’re going to have to give Jaeme some time. Besides which, Perchaya is right. We need rest, and a few days won’t bring about the return of Maldorath. Not while you and Perchaya are safe.”
Kenton bored his eyes into the back of Hugh’s head as he leaned over and said something privately to Perchaya, and she giggled.
He would hardly describe this situation as safe. Besides which, Jaeme couldn’t be left to his own devices, or he might reach old age before he stooped to looking for Kotali.
Contrary to what Sayvil said, Kenton was more certain than ever that they couldn’t get out of Mortiche fast enough.
Twenty-six
As the sun set that evening, Daniella sat in the courtyard at the center of Castle Grisham, watching the sea breeze tangle the branches at the top of the massive tree at the center. She’d admired this courtyard on the tour, and asked Jaeme to return to it for a bit to watch the sky turn. From the shape of the tree, Daniella imagined it had once been an oak, but it had grown unusually large even for its kind. The branches were more gnarled and much darker—almost black in color—yet its thick, broad leaves seemed brighter, healthier. Almost surreal. Daniella had read about the knighthood trees, of course, but the sketches in books hadn’t done it justice.
“So,” she said, staring up into the twisting branches. “What’s it like knowing that tree has eaten a piece of your soul?”
Jaeme elbowed her gently. “Not eaten. Just . . . absorbed. And it was only a little bit of blood, a long time ago.”
“Still,” she said. “It’s clearly not natural.”
He didn’t argue with that. “You don’t like it?”
“On the contrary. I think it’s fascinating.” She’d always thought the knighthood practice of feeding their blood to their literal family tree was a bold one. She’d read everything she could find in her father’s library on the practice. Apparently, they cut into the wood of the tree and then let the wood absorb a vial of blood by way of a long piece of wick tucked into the gouge. The blood was given when they took their final knighthood vows and guarded round the clock until the tree consumed it completely.
Reports were that it wasn’t possible for a blood mage to control them using the wood, and she supposed that with all the ducal heirs adding their souls, someone had to have tried it. But the tree was still kept at the courtyard at the center of the castle—the most well-defended outdoor spot. “Still, it is a bit terrifying to think of the tree metabolizing your blood and then turning into that.”
“I’ve always found it comforting,” Jaeme said. “I’m a part of the tree, and so is my father. My uncle. All the knights in my line going back hundreds of years. It binds us together.”
Daniella nudged him playfully. “Quite the sentiment for someone who hates being a knight.”
He wrapped an arm around her waist, and she snuggled into him. “True. But I love my family,” he said. He hesitated. “What do you think of my uncle?”
Daniella paused. Greghor had been happy to see her, just like Jaeme had said he would be. And Duke Hugh had seemed friendly, though he clearly had eyes for Perchaya. She rather hoped that worked out, if only because he seemed a gentleman, and Perchaya had certainly been through enoug
h . . . Kenton.
But it all seemed a little too perfect, and she couldn’t help but feel like she was waiting for the knife in her back. “I like him,” Daniella said. “But I’m not sure why he’s so happy to see me.”
Jaeme stiffened. “What do you mean?”
Daniella drew a breath. This was exactly why she hadn’t brought it up. She didn’t know how to voice her feelings without making it sound as if she thought the worst of Greghor. “It just seems politically dangerous. You and me. Even if I am defecting—”
“Which you are,” Jaeme said.
“Which I am, of course—but having it known that I’m here will only bring my father’s wrath. You saw what happened in Ithale. It might be harder for my father to get to me here, but not impossible. I would think your uncle might be at least little concerned about it.” She cuddled closer to Jaeme, but his muscles were still tense.
“He has faith in the knighthood,” Jaeme said. “Faith in the security of our borders. If your father thought he could enter Mortiche, he’d have done so by now. Having you here only strengthens our position.”
“Because I can give you information,” she said.
Jaeme nodded. “Exactly.”
“But what information do you want me to give? Do you want me to tell them what I am? Because that seems like—”
“No,” Jaeme said quickly. “No, don’t tell them that.”
“I don’t know anything else,” she said quietly.
Jaeme shook his head. “Just let them ask questions. You lived in the castle. You had . . . access to General Dektrian, for the gods’ sakes. You might be surprised what you didn’t realize you knew.”
Daniella didn’t love that idea of being asked for information, trying to be helpful without telling anything that would put her or her companions in danger. Yet, it was the least she could do, for Jaeme, for her friends, for the people of the Five Lands. They needed every advantage they could get in the fight against her father.