Hearts in Cups

by Candace Gylgayton

  Colin knew the dilemma his wife wrestled with, for it was his own as well. "They will be all right," he assured her. "If anyone can find a safe refuge for them, it will be Cerwen. She is very resourceful, and as quick-witted as they come; much like her aunt." He held Dinea close, knowing that they both were fervently hoping that their confidence in her niece was not ill-placed.

  The blow had come far quicker than Colin imagined it would, and it found him unprepared. Still mourning his friend, Colin had not looked south soon enough and now Niall was on his front doorstep. While, to the north, the newly proclaimed Duke of Tuenth was bringing an army to his back door. For the first time in his life, Colin froze into inaction. He did not have the authority to counteract the ruler of a Great House or to raise an army within the borders of Sandovar. For that matter, legally he could not even command the House Troops of Pentarin. His capacity in Pentarin was that of a friend and advisor to the dead regent, with no powers or authority other than those of the ruler of a Minor House. Michael was in a similar position, with no vested power to call forth an army.

  It was the Captain of the Household Guard, Lord Renard Istan, who eventually came to them and asked what they wanted him to do. Physically intimidating in a broad-shouldered, muscular way, Istan was also strong-minded and determined to do more than stand aside and let Lord Niall run rough-shod over his city. He argued persuasively that someone had to give the orders and act as a focus to rally the citizens of Pentarin. A more unscrupulous man might have taken the opportunity to seize this advantage for himself, but instead it was decided between the three of them that they would form a temporary leadership coalition to deal with the immediate crises. Since neither Colin nor Michael had much practical military training, most of the defense strategy was left to Lord Istan. Michael was aware of the placement of troops within Sandovar's borders and Colin offered what strategic suggestions he could come up with, but Istan was in charge of the major military decisions. Colin and Michael then turned their attention to organizing the inhabitants of the city to prepare them for the assault that was being launched at them. The primary problem was that the city of Pentarin was virtually indefensible. Located far inland, it had been built for beauty, since its location made it an unlikely and difficult target for invading armies. No one had apparently considered that it might someday come under attack from within the borders of the Pentarchy.

  The citizens of Pentarin who were deemed unable to help in the defense of their city, rich and poor alike, prepared to flee. In haste, they packed their bundles of provisions and hid the valuables they could not carry with them, hoping to return and retrieve them when better times came. Long lines of people streamed down all of the roads that led from the city. Skirmishes had been reported occurring both to the north and south of the city as the invading armies met armed resistance and drove through it. Soon smoke was detected drifting lazily in the skies, whether from fields torched by farmers to prevent the invaders from benefiting from them or as the result of warfare.

  In the ten days between hearing of the offensive being launched against Pentarin and the sight of hostile armies appearing in the Silvarluin Valley, neither Colin nor Dinea slept much. Afraid to confront the fear in each other's eyes, for their own safety, the safety of their children and the safety of all those who looked to them for protection, they kept themselves in constant motion to meet the demands placed on them. The news brought to them from the soldiers sent to slow the advance of the enemy was not heartening. While Tuenth's army showed the roughness of men newly assembled, Mirvanovir's army moved and fought with precision and confidence. The long history of Niall's planned treachery was all too clear in the efficiency of his troops. Lord Istan had done his best but, with Mirvanovir's army a half-day’s march to the south and Tuenth's not much further, Colin and Dinea were advised to flee the near deserted city.

  "You must leave and leave now, or it will be too late," Istan told them at their last hurried meeting. "Most of the inhabitants have fled to the surrounding countryside and are laying low until they see which way the wind blows."

  "Are you suggesting that we run while you stay?" Colin asked in consternation. "We can't leave you here alone to face Niall."

  "If you stay, you will be killed or held prisoner, unable to do yourselves or anyone else any good. I have received an insolent message from the duke demanding that what forces we still command surrender immediately, and that he be granted free access to the city. He also orders that you be bound over to him." He confronted the anxiousness in their eyes with his own calm resolution. "We cannot oppose him any longer. What troops we have are poorly organized and have taken a terrible beating at their hands. The city cannot be defended without being destroyed. Our efforts have kept the enemy at bay long enough for our people to save themselves and some of their belongings from the rape and looting that will occur once Niall’s men enter the city."

  "But why will he unloose destruction on the city he so obviously prizes?" Dinea was distraught both at the idea of leaving, and the thought of what would be done to the city after they left.

  Istan's sigh shook the bulk of his shoulders with its resignation. The eyes that met and held hers were bloodshot with fatigue. "Men fight for what they wish to take."

  Colin added, "For Niall, it is an intangible: power. For the generals who command in his name, there is duty, and power, and the rewards offered by a generous and victorious prince. But for the common soldier, it is whatever lines his own pockets."

  Istan nodded. "The men who are enlisted to fight for Mirvanovir are not, for the most part, fighting for any ideal. They are fighting for what they can personally carry away. Their generals know that, even if Lord Niall is unaware of it. The soldiers are going to pillage this city and nothing is going to stop them." He sympathized with the horror in her face but knew that he spoke the truth.

  "There is nothing to be gained by your remaining here." Michael, who had sat silently brooding, spoke. "I shall stay here with Renard to greet our uninvited guests."

  "No, Michael, that is asking for death!" Colin protested at once. "You must also take the opportunity to escape while you can."

  Michael shook his head and spoke in a voice filled with determination. "Niall may imprison me, but I don't think that he will have me killed." He smiled grimly. "After all, I am too well versed in the bureaucracy that runs this city, and this kingdom. At worst, he will put me into prison and squeeze as much information as he can out of me. And," he was philosophic, "there is much that I can tell him to ensure that he keeps me alive but does not breach confidences. You two must leave though, and leave quickly."

  "We cannot leave you here alone! Please come with us," Dinea begged.

  He shook his head again. "No, I am the last official of any rank left here. It is my duty to stay and meet this traitor face to face before he, in his conceit, claims Pentarin as his own." There was more than a glimmer of pride and defiance in his face and bearing.

  "He shall not be alone, my lady," Lord Istan added. "As Captain of the Household Guards, I cannot leave the city. Michael and I will await the Duke of Mirvanovir's coming, together."

  Both men's faces bore the imprint of their resolve and Colin knew that further argument was useless. Unhappily, he accepted their answer. "I'm afraid that the battle for Pentarin was lost from the first. The real fight for the Pentarchy must now be waged from outside its capital." He turned to Dinea. "Can you gather whatever you need to travel and be ready to leave within an hour?"

  Sighing heavily, she replied, "Yes, of course. But where will we go?"

  "Dacara. We will go to Dacara and see if there is any aid that can be gleaned from there. Even if the mage masters refuse to help us directly, there are others there who will be ready to assist us." An air of determination came over Colin, banishing the feelings of inadequacy that had haunted him since the death of Percamber. He had at last seen a path that he could follow.

  Dinea clasped his hand, relieved that he had rediscovered his st
rength and gaining back some of her own from it. They parted from Michael and Renard a short while later, vanishing into the dimness of the night like wild animals or phantoms, leaving with their promise to rouse and bring aid as soon as they could.

  In the hard brightness of morning, Lord Michael Talen, recorder of the Pentacle Council, and the Captain of Pentarin's Household Guard, Lord Renard Istan, stood before the southern-most gate to surrender the royal city of Pentarin to the renegade Duke of Mirvanovir. Wearing the blue and silver of House Sandovar, both men stood with stately dignity in the shade beneath the arch of the stone gate, with a small knot of palace courtiers and guards behind them. A hot breath of wind stirred their hair and watered their eyes as they watched the dark mass of Mirvanovir's army moving towards the city with irreconcilable menace. Less than a quarter mile from the gate, they clearly saw Lord Niall riding a grey charger at the head of his army's vanguard. At his side, his standard-bearer held aloft the black swan swimming on its red field. Michael lifted his chin and met Niall's sneering smile with as much dignity as he could brave when the duke finally arrived before the gate of the city. In a soft, drawling voice Niall began by ordering everyone to their knees. When they did not respond with the promptness that the duke expected, several of his warriors leaped down from their own mounts and struck with mailed fists those who were not on their knees to their conqueror. Lord Istan was one of the first to be knocked down.

  "You are my prisoners now, and those of you that I decide not to execute will soon learn who is master here," Niall announced arrogantly, directing an unpleasant glare at Michael, who had gone to Renard's aid.

  The last Michael saw of the duke, as he was hauled to his feet to be taken into custody, was his back as he brazenly rode into Pentarin, home to House Sandovar and capital of the Pentarchy for the past three hundred years, with his army on his heels.

  The next day, Blaise ap Halberstad, newly proclaimed Duke of Tuenth, led his forces in triumph through Pentarin's northern gate. His men, grumbling that they had been held back to allow Mirvanovir's forces to arrive first, soon forgot their resentment as they joined in pillaging those portions of the city not restricted by Lord Niall and his War-Council. Blaise joined Niall in Pentarin Palace, which was strictly off limits to all but Niall's hand-picked House Guard.

  At present Niall was still occupying the wing of the palace in which the scions of Mirvanovir had always dwelt. Blaise, taking his cue from Niall, set himself up in his family's apartments. He had been informed by Niall, that the duchess, Rashara, would be arriving within the week with a retinue of servants and courtiers to staff the palace. Adopting a policy of discretion, Blaise put himself at the service of the older duke, taking and carrying out his orders until his lady should appear and give him other tasks.

  Furious that Treves and his wife had escaped, Niall ordered Lord Michael to be persuaded into revealing where the missing pair had gone. An over-zealous inquisitor had pushed too far, too fast, with the result that they now had yet another dead and useless body to dispose of. When Niall was informed of this unfortunate event, he merely shrugged and ordered the inquisitor dead as well. Lord Istan was still alive after his interrogation but, so far, had revealed nothing useful. Niall gave his men another day to extract something useful from the captain or kill him.

  Upon setting himself up in Pentarin Palace, Lord Niall had letters drafted and carried by private messenger to each of the remaining heads of the Great and Minor Houses, in which he declared his intention of assuming the High Kingship in order to "secure the integrity of the state," and demanding a tribute of fealty from all of the other members of the Pentacle Council. Unwritten but implied in the letter was the threat of war if his wishes were not complied with. By the time that Rashara made her entrance into the city, Niall had received Creon's reply. With amusement, he read Branwilde's pompous demand aloud: Renounce your claim to the throne and return with your people to Mirvanovir in peace immediately!

  "Well, that's blunt enough," Rashara declared as she sat, enjoying the comfort of an upholstered chair that did not move, and reaching for an apricot with leisurely grace. She had attired herself in an ornate over-dress of patterned red damask, the long sleeves caught at the elbows to reveal an under-dress of peach-coloured silk. The rich gold of her hair was caught simply in back with a net strung with pearls and rubies. As she turned her head the weight of her hair swung alluringly to reveal the nape of her neck. The care which she had taken in her toilette was as much for her young protégé as her lord duke. Both seemed appreciative, she noted with amused satisfaction, as she sunk her perfect, white teeth into the piece of fruit.

  "Branwilde is an idiot if he thinks that I would pay the least attention to that!" Niall's arm moved in a loose, undirected gesture. "However, I'm not quite ready to go to war with him. Brescom needs to start the distraction in the north before we make our next move. In the meantime, I will wait and see if I can increase our odds with another army or two from one of the Minor Houses."

  "Why bother with them?" Blaise interjected lazily. He sat on the arm of a chair with one leg swinging free, smiling at the duchess. "We took the capital from under their noses with hardly enough fighting to call it a contest." Rashara forbore to send him a warning look. If he wanted to antagonize Niall, he should learn the consequences.

  "Because, my ignorant young dukeling," Niall sneered, "we have made it this far only because we mobilized the instant that we were informed of Percamber's death. We won because there was no organized resistance and no one with enough authority in charge here. This city is almost impossible to defend, especially without troops. Branwilde may be an idiot, but he is head of a Great House. And he does know how to organize a fight. If he and that commoner in Langstraad who so recently became his son-in-law hold together, they will present a difficult front."

  During this tirade Blaise's face flushed darkly with anger, though he said nothing. With an effort, he dropped his eyes to the carpet and regained his composure. He could not afford to offend Niall at this juncture, so he responded by looking chagrined and keeping still. When he ventured to glance at Rashara again, he noted amusement and sympathy in her eyes. He almost smiled back at her but instead the cool, judicious mask that he was learning to wear so well came over his features and he turned his attention to Niall.

  "...so, by offering to split the Pentarchy with him as co-ruler, we will both tempt him and keep him at bay a little longer," Niall was explaining.

  "Is there a possibility that the Duke of Creon might agree?" Blaise asked.

  Niall laughed unpleasantly. "Branwilde and I go back many years and I know him very well. His conscience would never allow him to even admit to what he might consider doing in the hidden recesses of his own heart. Poor Branwilde has never allowed himself to take or enjoy anything that might possibly conflict with his sense of moral rectitude."

  Within a few days, Niall received his fellow duke's conscionable reply to his offer: the entrails of a goat.

  Through the window of his study, Ian could hear the noises made by the castle's inhabitants going about their business on this rather balmy afternoon. He had retreated to the privacy of the study, formerly Holly's now made his, to reread the letter received from his father-in-law that morning. There had been little communication between the ducal houses since Ian had returned to Lir with the Duke of Creon's daughter as his wife. If Angharad wrote to her parents privately, it was without his knowledge. But then, he reflected, there was little communication between his wife and himself.

  After seeing her installed in her own rooms and ascertaining from her that they were adequate, Ian returned to his own rooms and his way of life much as before. They did meet in the main hall for the evening meal, those times when she did not order a tray brought to her room, and once in a while their paths would cross as they went about their daily lives in the castle. Ian was always polite when they met and tried to be amiable, but there was a chill in her speech and attitude that distanced him. He would
have liked to have been friends with the girl, as she seemed in need of friends, but he had promised to leave her alone, and that was apparently what she wanted. Kathryn, seeing the true state of her old lover's new marriage, gleefully returned to his bed. Ian simply shrugged and let the domestic arrangements take care of themselves.

  A month ago, he had received the news of Lord Percamber's death. The notice had made him blanche and a strong foreboding had overcome him. He subsequently ordered increased patrolling of the duchy's borders and continued to keep vigilant watch on events outside his borders. The tidings of war came sooner than expected, and from quarters unexpected. He had known that one of old Gunnar's sons had become the new duke but not that he was allied to Niall of Mirvanovir. Over the next few weeks he learned of the surrender of Pentarin and its occupation. Then Niall's insolent message was delivered and a shiver went down Ian's back. War was about to come in search of him and he was not at all certain of his own readiness to face it. Now Branwilde wrote, demanding Ian join with him in an alliance to go to war against these traitors.

  Ian had been wrestling with a response to the letter all afternoon. The Baroness of Morna and her husband had been sending him a series of reports on the Earl of the Inner Ward and his activities to the north, all of which pointed to preparations for an impending attack. Branwilde was asking him to lead an army south, to join with the armies of Creon and Thurin in marching into Sandovar and subduing Niall. To send an army of the size that Branwilde obviously wanted would seriously deplete the forces left to defend Langstraad. Ian was unsure that marching out to find Niall was the best strategy for the situation anyway. He was certain that Niall did not intend to stop with the conquest of Sandovar. Niall wanted the entire Pentarchy for himself and he would go after it if they did not bring it to him. Ian also judged that Niall would be loathe to wait long in Pentarin. Niall was a shrewd but impulsive man who had just won a major victory; the sweetness of that accomplishment would not let him linger where he was. They only had to wait behind their mountains and he would come to them. To Ian's thinking, it made more sense to muster their forces and pick off Niall's army as it tried to come through the mountains. He was also reluctant to leave his northern borders under-protected. Alwyn did not know the size of Brescom's forces, but he did know that they had been in training for most of the summer. Lastly, Ian knew that he himself was not a military man. Branwilde and his grandfather had grown up learning how to fight, how to plan battles and campaigns and how to give orders. He on the other hand was an indifferent swordsman with no real fighting experience at all. For him, to go leading armies into major battles seemed the height of idiocy.