by DAVID B. COE
“Are you a swordsman as well, boy? Is it in the blood?”
“My father has taught me well, my lord,” he said. “I can’t say if it’s in my blood or not.”
“It is, my lord,” Tavis offered, surprising Xaver. “He’s every bit the swordsman I am. Perhaps more.”
Aindreas raised an eyebrow. “High praise indeed. It looks like we’ll be making room for two more in the tournament.”
Kentigern’s duke placed a large arm around Javan’s shoulders, something Xaver had never seen anyone do before, not even the duchess of Curgh. Together the two men walked back toward the city gate.
“Come, Javan,” he said. “Ioanna’s eager to welcome you. It’s a shame Shonah couldn’t make the journey as well, though I understand. The roads being what they are today, with thieves and knaves around every corner, I wouldn’t take Ioanna or Brienne far from the tor unless I had to.”
At Fotir’s prompting, Tavis and Xaver followed the dukes so that they could go through another round of introductions. The duchess of Kentigern was somewhat reserved in her greetings, although she smiled kindly when Xaver bowed to her. Javan showed no more warmth in meeting Kentigern’s Qirsi, a man named Shurik, than Aindreas had when presented with Fotir. Nor did the two white-haired men exchange more than a simple nod when they were introduced to each other.
After what seemed a long time and an endless exchange of greetings and names, the two dukes finally began to lead the rest of them through the city of Kentigern toward the castle. The city lanes were lined on both sides with hundreds of people, who cheered for the dukes and stared admiringly at the soldiers.
“They want to see the duke and Lord Tavis.”
Xaver looked to the side and saw Fotir eyeing him closely, the hint of a smile on his lips.
“It’s not often that kings come to Kentigern. Yet here are two men who will sit on Audun’s throne. The people you see here will speak of this day for the rest of their lives.” The Qirsi man spoke quietly, with a look in his pale eyes that made Xaver wonder if there was more to what he was saying than was immediately apparent.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” he said, not knowing quite how the first minister expected him to respond.
“I know. I think all of us forget at times. We must guard against that. They depend on us.”
Xaver considered this for a moment before nodding slowly. Fotir smiled and faced forward again.
Ioanna was explaining that Brienne was in her chambers, preparing for the welcoming banquet that was to begin with the ringing of the twilight bells. There she would be presented formally to Javan and her betrothed.
“That’s how I met Aindreas,” she said. “It’s a custom I thought worthy of being passed on to my daughter.”
“I quite agree,” Javan said. “Don’t you, Tavis?”
“Of course, Father,” the young lord said. “My Lady Ioanna is most wise.”
Once more, Javan nodded his approval, and a moment later he and the duchess and duke of Kentigern returned to their conversation, leaving Xaver free to look around the city.
In many ways, Kentigern resembled Curgh. Both had large marketplaces that were filled with merchant shops, smithies, peddlers’ carts, and inns. From what Xaver could see, Kentigern’s outer lanes, like those in Curgh, served as avenues for shepherds and others bringing livestock to the markets from the surrounding countryside. The only important difference between this city and Curgh seemed to be the position of the castle. While Javan’s castle was by far the greatest structure in Curgh, it was very much a part of the city. Shops and homes sat just beside it. Kentigern Castle, however, sitting atop its tor, towered above the walled city as if separate from it. The city ended at the base of the rise, giving way to large boulders, low grasses and stunted trees, jagged stone bluffs, and a single winding road that appeared to turn back on itself several times before finally reaching the castle gate. It was as if those who had built the castle sought protection not just from the Aneirans on the far side of the river, but also from their own townsfolk.
“Is it what you expected?” Fotir asked, drawing Xaver’s gaze once more. The first minister had never before shown this much interest in him.
“I’m not sure that I was expecting anything in particular,” he said, keeping his voice low. “It’s a magnificent castle.”
Fotir nodded and looked up at the castle. An instant later, though, he was facing Xaver again. “Lord Tavis seems to have recovered from whatever it was he saw in his Fating.”
“I suppose,” Xaver said, abruptly feeling uncomfortable.
“Do you know what he saw, Xaver?”
“No. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Even after what he did to you, you still protect him. The duke is right: Lord Tavis is fortunate to have you.”
Xaver kept silent, his eyes fixed on the road.
Fotir, though, had a knack for reading his thoughts. “Or perhaps that’s not it at all. Perhaps you just don’t trust me.”
Xaver looked at him briefly, but still he said nothing.
“Good, Master MarCullet,” the Qirsi said. “Very good. You’re wrong about me. I’m a friend to both you and your lord. But there are far fewer of us than you may think. Trust no one. Better to mistake a friend for an enemy than an enemy for a friend.”
Once more the first minister faced forward, leaving Xaver to ponder what he had just heard. There was a warning in Fotir’s words, as well as an offer of friendship. If only Xaver knew which to believe.
Leaving the Revel had been no easy task. It helped that Jedrek stayed, though Cadel spent the better part of a day convincing his friend to do this. Had both of them left, it would have drawn the attention not only of the other singers, but quite possibly of Yegor and Aurea as well, and that was a risk he couldn’t take. As it was, he went leagues out of his way to avoid raising suspicions about his departure or giving away his true destination.
The Revel left Curgh seven days before Pitch Night, traveling northeast through the Moorlands toward Galdasten. On the third night out, a full five leagues from Curgh, Cadel and Jedrek feigned a fight over a woman in a country tavern. It was a ruse they had used before. Indeed, several of the singers had been with them long enough that they were no longer surprised when the two of them came to blows. So when Cadel left the Revel, nursing a bloody nose and a cut on his cheek, it barely raised an eyebrow among the other performers.
He took a horse and headed toward Sussyn, turning in the direction of Kentigern only midway through the next day, when he was certain that no one who knew him could see. He stopped in a small village just outside the walls of Heneagh along the way, although only long enough to pay a visit to the village apothecary. From there, he rode as fast as his mount would allow to Kentigern Tor.
He knew that the duke of Curgh and his party would not be leaving the castle until the beginning of the next turn. Few chose to be abroad on Pitch Night, even during Amon’s Turn, when the dark legends posed little immediate danger. So Cadel had several days to make up the distance he had traveled with the Revel. That, and the fact that he was riding alone, allowed him to reach Kentigern a full three days before Javan’s arrival. Still, he did not enter the city until he saw the riders of Curgh emerge from Kentigern Wood, and then he did so through the north gate, on foot, in the company of several peddlers and a goatherd driving a flock from a coastal village.
As much as he relied on Jedrek, for companionship as well as his blade, Cadel was forced to admit that he enjoyed working alone. He had only himself to worry about. He could move at his own pace, make decisions without having to explain them. He felt free. He found himself taking greater risks and savoring the added danger. The Qirsi had offered to give him the names of some allies in Kentigern, just in case something went wrong, but Cadel refused. He explained that he had friends of his own scattered throughout Eibithar, which was true, though none of them were here. He said as well that he preferred to work alone, though at the time he hadn’
t realized how true this was. But he didn’t reveal the real reason, that he wanted no more contact with white-hairs than was necessary. He certainly didn’t want to be turning to them for help. It was bad enough that he would have to turn to them when the deed was done and he crossed the Tarbin into Aneira.
No, he didn’t need the names of the Qirsi’s friends. He had no intention of allowing anything to go wrong.
From the city gate, he made his way to the winding road leading up to the castle, where the people of Kentigern watched their duke escort his guests up the slope of the tor. When several of the city folk followed the dukes up the road to the castle gate, Cadel fell in with them. Most of them turned away before reaching the castle guards, but Cadel continued to the gate and started to walk through as if he belonged there.
“Hey, you!” one of the guards shouted, brandishing a gleaming pike. “You can’t just walk into the castle. What do you think this is, Bohdan’s Night?” He laughed, as did the other guards standing with him.
“No, sir,” Cadel said, bowing his head and making himself stammer. “I’m one of the duke’s men, sir. One of his servants.”
“I never seen you before.”
“Forgive me, sir. I meant the duke of Curgh.”
The guard hesitated, then glanced at his friends. None of them had any idea what to do either.
There was never an easier time to slip into a castle, even one as well guarded as Kentigern, than when another noble was visiting. True, there were soldiers and servants everywhere, but none of them knew who belonged and who didn’t, and all of them feared giving offense to the wrong person. These fools were no different.
“Better let him go,” one of the other guards said, keeping his voice low. “Captain will have your head if Curgh makes a fuss and it’s your fault.”
The first guard stared at Cadel for a moment before nodding. “Go on then,” he said. “Next time stay with the others.”
“Yes, sir,” Cadel said, bowing again, and hurrying through the gate. “Thank you, sir.”
And just like that, he was in.
He had been in Kentigern Castle several times before, usually as a singer, and he knew just where to go. Stepping into the outer ward, he turned to the right and made his way to the north gatehouse, which was just next to the kitchens. The guards there eyed him doubtfully, but let him pass, apparently assuming that since he had already satisfied the guards at the first gate, they needn’t bother with him.
He caught the scents of roasting meat and fresh bread the moment he entered the inner ward, and he hurried toward the smells. As he often told Jedrek, there was no safer place for an assassin in a castle than the kitchens, and on this night Kentigern’s kitchens were no exception. One of the duke of Kentigern’s lesser ministers barked commands at servants, who ran in every direction, trying to prepare for the feast that was to begin within the hour. Cooks yelled for the pantrymen to bring more meats or flour, while the kitchenmaster shouted at the cooks to hurry the meal along. It was bedlam. Perfect.
A stout man emerged from the castle cellars struggling with three large containers of dark wine, and Cadel hurried to his side, taking two of them.
“Many thanks,” he said with a grin. “I had a boy who was helping me fill these, but he disappeared when it came time to carry them.”
“Glad to help,” Cadel said. “Where are you taking them?”
The man gestured toward the steps leading up to the duke’s hall. “There’s a table inside the hall where we’re to put all the wine. I’ll be up and down these stairs a dozen times at least getting it there.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless I have help.”
Why not. The busier he was, the less likely anyone would be to notice him. And having access to the wine would serve him well later. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll help.”
“You must be from Curgh,” the man said as they carried the wine up to the duke’s hall. “I haven’t seen you before.”
“You’re right, I am. My name is Crebin.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Crebin.”
They placed the containers of wine on a long oak table and the man held out a thick hand.
“I’m Vanyk, cellarmaster here in Kentigern.”
Cadel smiled. “My father always told me that I had a talent for befriending the right people.”
Vanyk laughed, as they started back down the stairs for the next load of wine. “Your father was right. Help me with these flasks and I promise you won’t go thirsty while you’re on the tor.”
Even with two of them carrying the containers, it took Cadel and the cellarmaster nine trips to get all the wine into the hall. By the time they finished, the duke of Kentigern’s guests had entered the dining chamber and started to seat themselves at the long tables arranged around its perimeter. Cadel scanned the hall for the dukes and Lord Tavis, but they hadn’t arrived yet.
Both he and Vanyk were soaked with sweat and covered with dust from the cellar.
“I need to change my clothes,” Vanyk said, wiping the front of his shirt. “The duke’s cellarmaster can’t come to a feast looking like this.”
Cadel nodded. “I understand. Perhaps I’ll see you later in the evening.”
He started to walk back toward the kitchen, but Vanyk didn’t let him get far.
“Those are your riding clothes, aren’t they?” the man asked.
Cadel turned to face him. “Yes.”
“Do you have any others with you?”
He made himself laugh. “My lord duke is generous, but not that generous. This is all I have.”
Vanyk looked at him with a critical eye for a moment. “You’re a tall one, aren’t you?” he said. “Still, I think I might have something that will fit you.”
Cadel narrowed his eyes. “What for?”
“I can’t serve all that wine myself, and if that whelp who abandoned me before thinks he’ll be pouring wine for the duke and his lady, he’s in for a surprise.”
The gods were smiling on him, though he didn’t let Vanyk see how pleased he was.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I help in the kitchens back home, but I’m no server. I’d probably spill it all.”
Vanyk smiled. “Nonsense. You’ll be fine. And I can promise you five qinde for the night, plus a flask of my finest Aneiran gold wine.”
It would have been a good offer even if he hadn’t already made up his mind to accept.
“All right,” he agreed. “But I prefer a Sanbiri dark.”
“Done!” Vanyk said, nodding his approval.
They shared a quick smile before his new friend started back down into the castle cellars, gesturing for Cadel to come as well. He followed the cellarmaster down the stairs, and as he did his hand wandered briefly to the pocket of his breeches. The small vial he had gotten from the apothecary in Heneagh was still there.
Chapter Nine
The memory of his Fating haunted Tavis like one of Bian’s wraiths, hovering at his shoulder during the day and darkening his dreams at night. At times he managed to forget about it, to immerse himself in whatever he was doing at that particular moment. But these instances were fleeting at best. Always the image of himself in the dungeon returned, flashing in his mind’s eye like lightning on a warm day, and filling his heart with a dread that chilled him like sudden rain.
He had hoped the journey to Kentigern would bring some comfort, or at least a respite from his fears. Every time he looked at Xaver, however, and remembered what he had done to his friend, it all came back in a rush. Not the actual attack on his liege man; of that he could recall nothing. But he saw each day what it had done to their friendship, and he knew that it was all because of the vision offered to him by the Qiran. He slept poorly throughout their travels and had little appetite. His thirst for wine and ale, on the other hand, had never been greater, and though he had not drunk himself into a rage again, the way he did the night of his gleaning, he had been quietly drunk nearly every night since. If Xaver was aware of this, he had kept it to him
self. His father, the duke, Tavis was sure, had noticed nothing.
Their arrival in Kentigern lifted his mood a bit. He was deeply impressed by the castle itself, and moved by the warm welcome they had received from Aindreas and Ioanna. At the same time, though, Kentigern presented Tavis with another problem: he was not at all certain that he wanted to be married to Brienne. It had been years since he had seen her, and his memories of their meeting had grown dim and confused with time. He did not recall her being at all pretty. She had been heavy, with thin yellow hair that hung limply to her shoulders. Her disposition had been no better and they had spent most of their days together teasing each other and fighting. When at last he and his father started back toward Curgh, Tavis had been glad to leave her and Kentigern behind.
Still, everyone assured him that she would make a good queen and a fine wife. He wanted to believe them, and he had to admit that his impression of Kentigern had changed markedly since his last visit. He was grown now, nearly a man. Perhaps his impressions of the Lady Brienne would reflect this as well. Certainly if she was anything like her mother, he would have to rethink his opinion of the girl entirely.
“You’ll be sitting with Brienne at the banquet,” his father told him, his voice low.
They were walking through a stone corridor in Kentigern Castle’s inner keep. Following their arrival at the castle, Javan, Tavis, and the rest of their company had been escorted to quarters on the east side of the keep, where they were given ample time to shed their riding clothes, bathe, and put on attire more appropriate for the evening’s celebration. Now four of Aindreas’s guards, all of them ornately dressed, led them to the duke’s hall, where the banquet would take place. Fotir and Xaver were behind Tavis and his father, as were two of Javan’s servants, including, Tavis had noticed, his taster. The display of warmth and friendship at the city gate notwithstanding, his father was not yet ready to surrender all to trust.
“I’ll be just beside you with the duke and duchess.” Javan was looking straight ahead even as he spoke to Tavis, a smile fixed on his lips.