Hearts in Cups

by Candace Gylgayton

  THE PENTACLE WAR

  Book One

  Hearts in Cups

  Candace Gylgayton

  The Pentacle War – Book One: Hearts in Cups

  By Candace Gylgayton

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in a critical article or review.

  The Pentacle War – Book One: Hearts in Cups

  Copyright © 2012, Candace Gylgayton

  First Edition Print

  Format by The Writing Shop

  Cover illustration by Jackie Smyth

  Maps & Images by Briony Gylgayton

  For Richard, Ariana and Briony

  Table of Contents

  Map of the Pentarchy

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part Two

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Appendix

  About the Author

  Map of the Pentarchy

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  The sun had not yet risen above the surrounding mountains as the lone horseman began climbing the last stretch of the road leading up from the silver of the Tarn River to the gray battlements of Castle Lir. The road rose in long, serpentine loops up the shoulder of the mountain before breaking free of the forest and running straight towards the massive gates in the castle's outer wall. As he drew nearer, the rider looked up to see the towers, high above the great battlements, turn golden in the dawning light. Lir, older than remembrance, stood vast and quiet in the early morning; with the great peak known as Cloud's Rest brooding over it. Glad to have his goal in sight, the rider spurred his sweating horse forward.

  The thick, outer wall of the castle was built in a semi-circle between two spurs of the mountain, and was pierced by three entrance tunnels with imposing gates and a portcullis at either end. The road from the river led to the largest of the entrances in the center of the great wall. Here the rider was halted by guards opening the gates for the daily activity that passed in and out of the castle. The silver and blue livery of the rider and his royal seal of passage forbade close interrogation; he was cursorily checked and passed through. The other end of the tunnel opened upon an immense field used as a military training ground or market place, depending on the day and the season. The castle stables were located at the western end of the field and a few stable boys, buckets in hand, regarded the unexpected rider with blatant interest. Crossing this field, the rider came to another wall and gateway, through which he could see the castle's central courtyard with its keep and the auxiliary buildings that made up the interior castle complex. Dismounting before this gate, he was approached by a man in green and gold livery who demanded his office.

  "I am sent from Pentarin with a message to be delivered from my hand to Her Grace, the Duchess of Langstraad." Extending his badge of office, he stretched his cramped legs and stamped the ground several times to restore his circulation.

  The courtier, a man of medium height with a dark, clever face, examined the badge carefully before returning it. He motioned for a stable boy to take the messenger’s horse. "Do you carry a weapon?"

  "I have my sword and dagger."

  "Please remove them and follow me." The messenger handed his weapons to yet another man and followed the green and gold back of his examiner across the width of the courtyard and up a flight of stone steps.

  Once inside, the messenger took note of the swept floors and polished wood of the hallway, impressed that age had not decayed the castle. Ascending progressively steeper flights of stairs, the messenger was taken upwards into the heart of the castle. At one point he chanced to look out one of the windows of a long gallery he was passing through and saw the keep's main courtyard far below. The journey ended at a flight of five stairs leading to a carved wooden door. Bidding the messenger to wait at the foot of these stairs, the courtier advanced and knocked softly, announcing the arrival of the unexpected visitor. After listening to an all but inaudible reply, the messenger was ushered into the room.

  Glancing around, he saw that the room was an L-shaped configuration, with mullioned windows all along the inner side of the angle, which faced north and east. The interior walls were faced with wooden panels, and several large rugs of intricate, multicolored patterns were strewn on the inlaid wood floor. A voluminous desk took up most of the far end of the room and books were abundant in the shelves under the window sills. Two comfortable looking chairs and a low table were set before the fireplace. The possessor of the room looked up serenely from the desk at which she sat.

  With a low and practiced bow the messenger introduced himself. "I am Barth ap Evain, personal messenger for the regent, Percamber ap Morna. I am charged with a letter from my lord to deliver to the hand of Her Grace, the Duchess of Langstraad."

  "You may give me the letter then, for I am she," the woman replied, with a trace of amusement in her low, clear voice.

  A small multi-sealed packet was produced from a leather pouch attached to his belt and proffered to her with another deep bow. She received it with a nod and carefully examined the seals. "When did you leave with this?"

  "Six days ago, your grace."

  "You have ridden far and fast," she remarked. "Alaric, take him to the kitchens and see that he is fed. Then request my cousin to attend me here." Both men bowed and left the room.

  In silence, Alaric led the young messenger down to the cavernous kitchens that serviced the entire castle. After informing one of the cooks to feed the man and find him a bed, he bid him good-day and went in search of Lord Ian.

  By now the population of the castle had begun to fill the halls and yards, raising a din with their voices and activity. Alaric made his way quickly across the smaller of the two minor courtyards and into the eastern wing of the main castle, where Ian de Medicat, cousin to the duchess, had his permanent suite of rooms. He had to knock several times before the door was answered, not by his lordship's man-servant as usual, but by his lordship.

  Alaric sketched a brief bow and delivered his message: "Her grace wishes your attendance immediately, my lord."

  "Is that so?" was the drawled response. "All right, wait a moment and I'll be along." He closed the door but not before a female voice reached Alaric's ears. Alaric was not an overly inquisitive man, but his lordship did have something of a reputation and Alaric found himself wondering idly who was sharing his lordship's bed these days.

  He did not have long to dwell on this subject before the door was pulled ajar and Lord Ian, tossing a fur-lined cloak over his shoulders to discourage the early morning chill, joined him in the hallway. The sound of another door closing within his lordship's rooms confirmed in Alaric's mind some of his suspicions, but he remained silent as he led the way back to her grace's solarium.

  The morning sun was streaming through the windows when they arrived, giving play to a luminous cloud of dust motes. Ian was announced and he entered the room to find the duchess sitting in a chair before the fire, abstractedly fingering the b
roken seals of the royal missive.

  "Sit down Ian," she said easily. "Have you breakfasted yet? Alaric, have the kitchen send us something to eat."

  Ian sauntered to the empty chair and gracefully deposited himself in it. Young and possessed of a singularly charming visage, his face had been schooled to exhibit a bland disinterest to the world at large. There was a studied nonchalance in the dark hair that tumbled over his pale forehead and a casual elegance to his dress. His cousin, knowing him better, chose to ignore what was in fact merely a disguise.

  "I'm surprised that you called for me at this early hour, cousin. Not that I'm not thoroughly charmed of course." He smiled engagingly and stretched his legs out in front of him.

  "I have just received a letter from Lord Percamber. I'm afraid that I will be leaving for Pentarin the day after tomorrow instead of at the end of the week as planned. There are a few things I need to review with you before leaving, since you will be acting as steward while I am away."

  "Hmmm... now, what can have arisen that you should need to go rushing off to the capital? The Pentacle Council doesn't convene for another fortnight yet." He looked at her over the steeple he had made with his fingers.

  At this she began to chuckle and shake her head at him. "Ian, dear boy, I am thoroughly convinced that naught moves in this castle but you know of it. So, ferret, let me hear your guesses first."

  "Holly, you credit me with far too much cunning," he protested. "I am, as grandfather has pointed out to me on several occasions, but a foppish young puppy whose poor mind is no match for the political machinations of my betters. But if you could contrive to put a tankard of mulled wine in my hand it might, perhaps, ease the functioning of this rusty organ of mine." He comically cradled the side of his head in his hand.

  "Late hours?" she inquired unsympathetically.

  "The late hours do not bother me; the early ones do," he replied with feigned hurt.

  At this juncture Alaric, followed by a kitchen servant, entered with trays laden with fruit, fresh bread, butter and honey, and, a sign of his perspicacity, a steaming goblet of wine which he offered to Ian. After the servants had retired, the two cousins companionably began to appease their hunger. Soon Ian leaned back, having drunk the contents of his goblet, and eyed his cousin with a look that transformed his customarily casual mien to one of intense concern.

  "Let me see now... the Pentacle Council is not due to meet for three weeks, yet you receive a message from the Regent, delivered by one of his personal messengers no less, and after reading it, you announce your intention for an early departure. I would hazard that all of this, coupled with the hints and rumors I have been listening to recently, suggest that the agenda for this year's council session will have to be the Crown Prince, or the lack of same. In other words: the pot is about to boil."

  "Not badly reasoned at all." She rose and, handing him the letter, went to stand with her face towards the windows. Ian unfolded the heavy parchment and scanned the thick, slanted writing. When he had finished, he refolded the message with care and looked at his cousin. Tall for a woman, she stood gracefully in profile to him, the morning light turning her hair to flame: Hollin Morwen Medicat Lir, Duchess of Langstraad and head of one of the Great Houses of the Pentarchy. She glanced at him and he met her steel grey eyes.

  "Well, Holly," he said using her childhood diminutive. "You've known this was coming for a long time. King Gwydian has been dead for over five years and Lord Percamber is quite long in the tooth. It's been ten years or so since Prince Brian went away. While there is a High King in Sandovar, the Houses are held together and the Pentarchy is strong and united. Without a High King there is bound to be discontent among the Houses, and subsequent concerns by everyone about possible invasions from enemies outside of our borders."

  "I'm afraid that you are all too right." She sighed and came back to her chair.

  "The ‘ambitious ones’ Percamber refers to are the Duke and Duchess of Mirvanovir, I presume?"

  "Yes, I would suppose so; though there are more than enough malcontents about these days. Percamber seems quite certain this will be the council session that will decide the coming course of events."

  Ian cleared his throat, looked down at his hands and then caught his cousin's eyes directly. "What I say may be no more than conjecture, but I am willing to bet those with great ambitions are hoping to use the Duchess of Langstraad as a stepping stone to the throne."

  She regarded him incredulously. "On what do you base such speculation?"

  "To start with, the handfasting ceremony that took place between you and Prince Brian."

  "That's preposterous! The heirs of the Great Houses are never allowed to intermarry. The only reason I was allowed to be handfasted to him in the first place was because Gwyneira was the elder. It was always taken for granted that she would be Langstraad's next duchess." Hollin looked away, remembering the sister whose unexpected death had willed to her the duchy's coronet.

  "Besides," she continued grimly. "I was seven years old at the time! Such a ceremony, especially with a child involved, cannot truly be considered binding. "

  "But he was of age?"

  "I believe that he was close to twenty at the time."

  "Do you still have the ring that you were given as a troth-seal?"

  "I suppose that it's with my other personal jewelry," she replied with unwonted impatience. "But I still don't see how a preliminary betrothal could be of use, or interest, to anyone. I doubt anyone else even remembers it."

  "Don't you believe it! I've been doing a lot of listening in my recent travels, and that betrothal ceremony has not been forgotten. You had best arm yourself well before the Council convenes, or you will find yourself being auctioned off as crown-bearer to whoever is clever enough or strong enough to manage it!"

  The look she shot him was not pleasant but she said nothing.

  He continued in milder tones. "Let me tell you what it is I have been hearing on my journeys. The past two days I've had little chance to sit down and talk to you without interruption.

  "As you are well aware, since Grandfather hatched his most recent program for my reform, matrimony, I have been trotted out rather extensively in the hope of baiting a good match, as he is so fond of saying." Ian pursed his mouth in distaste. "Outside of raising his hopes for naught, I was able to glean quite a tidy sum of information for you.

  "First on the agenda was Branwilde of Creon's household. He has a daughter of marriageable age and, since the duke and Grandfather are such old friends, it was fervently hoped that I would be taken to their bosoms; hers at any rate. She's not a bad little piece, though my preferences lean to something a little fuller or, at least, older." He favoured his cousin with an impudent grin. "Anyway, her grace, Lady Dierdre, was less than ecstatic about having me as a son-in-law. I think she has higher hopes for the poor girl, and I soon found my way out of that house. After my dismal showing at the Duke of Creon's court, I was conducted on a leisurely tour of some of the lesser estates where a few of my prospective fathers-in-law examined damn near everything but my teeth! I'm afraid I didn't meet all of their specifications, much to Grandfather's chagrin. I can't say that I'm sorry. Anyway, we eventually reached Challis in Mirvanovir, where I spent an informative, though less than agreeable, few weeks as Lord Niall's guest."

  "I should have thought you would enjoy his style of life," she interjected drily.

  Ian wrinkled his nose in disdain. "I like creature comforts, and I even admit that I enjoy a certain amount of luxury, but I loathe decadence and there is a distinct odour of rottenness about the court of Mirvanovir. The duke is bad enough, but the duchess..." He paused to shudder violently.

  "Come now Ian, aren't you are getting overly dramatic? I've known Rashara for quite a few years and, while I've never personally liked her, she is certainly no ghoul."

  "Have you ever been to Challis? You only see her at council sessions and state occasions. I assure you, the goings on in their own palace are de
finitely of a sybaritic bent. One of the Duke of Tuenth's sons was there, and I would be much surprised if dinner was all that the duchess shared with him. Believe me, she is much the worst of that pair. Thankfully, the lack of profitable interest in my charms, along with your summons to return, cut short my sojourn there."

  Hollin sighed. "I know Grandfather has been making a good deal of noise about marrying you off, but I didn't realize that he was launching a major campaign."

  Ian smiled wryly. "Oh yes, I felt like a prize stud being brought out to tease. It was rather unbearable. I suspect that Grandfather still nurses hopes of foisting me off on Creon's House, but since he's not speaking with me at present, I think I shall remain with my bachelorhood intact."

  "He is only doing it for what he sees as your own good. Beneath that crusty exterior he does love you. He simply has trouble expressing his emotions," she said gently.

  "Oh yes, my mother taught me about his emotions," was the surprisingly bitter reply.

  Hollin sat quietly waiting for several minutes after this uncharacteristic outburst. Her aunt, Lady Fiona de Medicat, Ian's mother, had disgraced herself in her family's eyes many years ago by eloping with a commoner. Hollin remembered her arrival at the gates of Castle Lir some years later, straight-backed and proud with a face betraying her imminent death and a young boy with defiant eyes at her side. Her husband had died in an accident and the grief of it had wasted her until she was forced to bestow her only child on her brother's doorstep before she herself died. Only after she was buried did her father relent, forgiving her and naming her son his heir. Ian had been raised between his grandfather's house and his uncle's at Castle Lir. Grandfather and grandson had been at loggerheads from the start and, Hollin reflected, similarities of temperament had as much to do with their problems as did exterior forces. Both had fierce loyalties and stubbornness of purpose.