by DAVID B. COE
In most respects, Aylyn the First’s death did little to change the course of life in his home. But Hagan never again saw the place as he had before the messenger arrived. Suddenly it seemed too small, too quiet, too far from anything of importance. Later in his life he came to understand how fortunate he was that his father didn’t expect him to fulfill the duties of his earldom, for he would have gone mad had he been required to remain in the manor for all his life. As it was, the years leading to his Fating passed as slowly as a prison term. As he grew older, he also learned that the effect the king’s death had on his youth was not at all unusual. Almost everyone he knew who was old enough to remember that day, did so with extraordinary clarity. And a great number of them still pointed to that day as a portentous one in their lives.
No doubt there were children in Curgh on this day who would remember hearing of Aylyn the Second’s death until the end of their days.
Even before the messenger stepped into the castle to deliver his news to the duchess, cries of “The king is dead!” and “Bian spare our king!” reached the ward. Shonah’s tears flowed freely from her bright green eyes and her face had turned pale. She looked in that moment so much like Daria that Hagan found it difficult to breathe.
The soldiers had gathered around them, waiting for the messenger to arrive. But already the news of the king’s passing had left many of them too stunned to do more than just stand there, their arms hanging limp by their sides, the points of their swords resting on the ground. Hagan had rules about such things. Letting one’s weapon touch the ground usually meant a run through the towers. But not today. Most of these men had never known another king of Eibithar. Probably they couldn’t even imagine one. This was the worst possible time to send them to war. Yet Aylyn’s death made war all but inevitable.
There was a brief commotion from the barbican. No doubt a crowd had followed the messenger all the way from the Moorlands gate only to be stopped now by the castle guards. An instant later the messenger stepped through the gate and entered the castle’s city ward. Hagan couldn’t help but stare at the man. It had been thirty-three years. The messenger who had told his father of Aylyn the First’s death was an old man now. But this man looked just like him.
He could barely stand. Most likely he had covered the thirty-five leagues that lay between the City of Kings and Curgh with only a few brief rests. He might have gotten a new horse in one of the towns on the Moorlands. Messengers from Audun’s Castle often did, knowing that anyone in his right mind would trade for a royal mount. But chances were the man hadn’t slept in more than a day. His clothes were stained with mud and his face was streaked with dirt and sweat. Behind him came one of the guards, leading the man’s mount to the castle’s stable. The beast walked slowly with its head held low. It had been pushed to its limits as well.
The messenger stopped in front of the duchess and managed a deep bow.
“My lady,” he said in a raw voice. “I come to you bearing heavy tidings. Our Lord Sovereign, King Aylyn the Second, has died.”
“When?”
“Two nights ago, my lady. His ministers sent us to the twelve houses the following dawn.”
Shonah’s eyes met Hagan’s. “They won’t know in Kentigern for another day.”
He had been thinking the same thing. “Were you told to speak with the duke?” he asked the messenger.
“No, my lord. They told me to find the lady.”
Hagan nodded. Apparently the king’s ministers knew of what had happened in Kentigern. That was something at least, though not much.
“Is there more to their message?” Shonah asked.
“No, my lady. Just that the king is dead.”
She and Hagan exchanged a look. The ministers knew enough to send the messenger to Shonah, but they had nothing more to offer. It seemed that whatever was to happen in Kentigern would unfold without the intervention of the King’s Guard.
“Very well,” the duchess said at last. She actually managed a smile for the man. “You must be hungry and tired.”
“Yes, my lady.”
She gestured for a pair of the soldiers to come forward. “The two of you will take this man to the duke’s hall. Be sure that he is well fed, and then find him a room in which to sleep.”
The soldiers bowed to her and led the man away.
“Dismiss your men, swordmaster,” Shonah said, facing Hagan again. “We have much to discuss. I’ll be in the duke’s chambers with his ministers. Join us there.”
She was walking back toward the duke’s ward before Hagan could respond. It was so much like something Javan might have done that he had to grin.
“You heard her,” he called to the guards. “You’re dismissed. But don’t go far. I expect we’ll be leaving for Kentigern within the next day.”
Leaving his men, Hagan hurried to find the quartermaster. After a brief word with him, he continued to Javan’s chambers, where he found the duchess already discussing the death of the king with the duke’s Qirsi.
“Hagan, good,” Shonah said as he entered the room. She was standing behind Javan’s table looking discomfited, her color high.
The second minister appeared displeased as well, though as much by Hagan’s arrival as by anything that had come before.
“Is there a problem, my lady?” the swordmaster asked, taking his customary seat by the duke’s table.
“We’re disturbed by this talk of leading the army to Kentigern,” the second minister said before she could answer. “It’s reckless. The duke would not approve.”
Hagan had never been fond of the Qirsi. They were as arrogant as they were strange-looking. Perhaps he was too much a man of the sword, but he could not bring himself to trust their magic. There was something unnatural about it; such powers belonged with the gods, not with men and women of this earth. He had come to accept that the duke relied upon Fotir, but why Javan had ever seen fit to trust Danior jal Dania, the second minister, was beyond him. Given the choice between bold action and caution, he invariably chose the latter. Hagan had never heard him speak in favor of any use of the duke’s army. It was almost as if the man wished swords and bows didn’t exist.
“You believe you know better than the duchess or me what Javan would want?”
“The duchess, quite understandably, is concerned for her husband and her son. I don’t believe she can consider this matter with a clear mind. And since you also have a son in Kentigern, I’m forced to question whether you can either.”
Hagan glared at him. “How dare you!”
“I intend no offense, swordmaster, but you must admit that you have more on your mind just now than the well-being of the House of Curgh.”
“Demons and fire, man! Shouldn’t we all? The duke is in line to take the throne. From this day on, every hour that we tarry is an hour that Eibithar stands without a sovereign against the Aneirans and the emperor of Braedor. We must act now, not for this house, but for the entire kingdom!”
Danior snorted. It took Hagan a moment to realize that he was laughing. “Spoken like a true warrior, swordmaster. We must go to war to keep our enemies from starting a war.”
“Better a warrior than a coward, you Qirsi bastard!”
“That’s enough!” Shonah said, standing and stepping to the window. Hagan had seen the duke do much the same thing a thousand times. “You were starting to say something else, before Hagan arrived,” she went on, glancing back at Danior. “What was it?”
“It was about the message, my lady. You said that the king’s ministers sent no word other than tidings of Aylyn’s death.”
“Yes.”
“Well, that should tell you something. If they thought that Curgh should march on Kentigern, they would have advised you to do so. They may even have offered to send the King’s Guard.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Hagan said. “They couldn’t do anything of the sort. They don’t advise the duke, nor can they expect to when he becomes king. He’ll take his own ministers to Audun’s Cast
le.” Hopefully he’ll have sense enough to leave you here. “They’d no sooner offer counsel to him than they would to Aindreas. And as to the King’s Guard, when Aylyn died he left them powerless to do anything with his army. The guard isn’t theirs to order about.”
“I believe you’re wrong on that point,” Danior said. “Until the new king is formally enthroned, Aylyn’s reign continues. His ministers can act on his behalf.”
Hagan frowned. “So the king dies, and suddenly all power in the land falls to his Qirsi? I don’t believe that for a moment.”
“Believe what you will, swordmaster. The fact remains that the king’s ministers could have sent word in support of the steps you’re advising the duchess to take. But they didn’t, and that should tell us something.”
For several moments, no one spoke and the chamber was silent save for the soft calls of a dove perched on the castle wall somewhere near the window. The underministers had said nothing at all, which was probably wise. No matter what counsel they offered, they were bound to offend someone. And every person in the chamber had the power to keep them from ever becoming more than underministers.
“Aylyn is dead,” the duchess said at last, “and so Javan should be king.” She still looked frightened, as she had in the ward. But there was a look of resolve in her eyes as well. “I can’t be certain what the duke would tell me to do under these circumstances. But I do know this: he would never abdicate, at least not without a fight.” She faced the minister. “I hope you will forgive me, Danior, but I have to do this. Yes, I fear for my husband and my boy, but that’s not why I’m doing this. It’s Javan’s way. It’s the Curgh way. Surely you must see that.”
“I do see it, my lady, though I’m not certain that the Curgh way, as you put it, is the wisest course. You realize, of course, that by marching on Kentigern you risk your husband’s life.” The Qirsi cast a look Hagan’s way. “And your son’s as well.”
She nodded once. “I know that. I plan to make Aindreas understand that if he kills the duke, Curgh’s army will destroy all of Kentigern.” She turned to Hagan. “Can we leave at once?”
“No, my lady. I had a word with the quartermaster before I came here. We may be forced to lay siege to Kentigern’s castle. In which case we’ll need more men to build engines. The quartermaster will need a few hours more to add provisions to those he’s already gathered. I’m afraid we’ll have to wait until daybreak to leave.”
“So you knew that I would take the army to Kentigern?”
He felt the second minister’s eyes on him, but he refused to look at the man. “I had faith that you would choose the wisest path.”
“I see,” she said, sounding grateful. “Very well, we’ll leave in the morning.”
“I must say, my lady, that while I feel you’ve made the right decision, I don’t believe you should be part of this journey. The dangers to you—”
She held up a hand, stopping him. “This is my war, Hagan, if it’s to be a war. Would you tell Javan to remain here while his army marched to battle?”
He grinned. “Every time, my lady. But he wouldn’t listen either.”
“My lady,” the minister said, “I must tell you one last time, I think you’re making a grave mistake.”
“I understand that, Danior. You and your ministers are free to go. I appreciate your counsel. It may not seem that way to you, but it’s true nevertheless. I’ll expect you to ride with us. You have the power of mists, don’t you?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Good. We may need that before this is over.” She faced Hagan again, as if dismissing the Qirsi.
Danior looked over at the other ministers, appearing unsure of what to do. After a moment they all stood and filed out of the chamber. The second minister hesitated at the door, as if intending to say more. But instead he merely shook his head and left.
“That was well done, my lady,” Hagan said, standing as well.
“Thank you. I suppose you think that I’ve learned well from my husband.”
“You wouldn’t be the first to do so, my lady.”
“Must a woman be taught such things by her man? Did it never occur to you that I might have come to our joining already possessing an aptitude for statecraft?”
He had to smile. It was something Daria would have said. “Of course it did. I don’t think Javan could have loved you so much if you hadn’t.”
She smiled as well, though sadly. “Perhaps not.”
They stood for some time, neither of them speaking, until finally the swordmaster cleared his throat and glanced toward the door.
“I should inform the men of what’s been decided here. As it is, they’ll be awake much of the night preparing and saying their goodbyes.”
Shonah nodded, and he started toward the door.
“Hagan.”
The swordmaster stopped, waiting.
“Are we about to start a civil war? Is that where all of this is leading?”
“This may bring us to war,” he said, his voice hardening. “But we didn’t start anything. Nor did Aindreas. Whoever killed Lady Brienne bears the blame for all of this. But Kentigern has imprisoned our duke, and now he holds our king. What kind of people would we be if we remained here doing nothing?”
Chapter Twenty-five
Kentigern, Eibithar, Adriel’s Moon waning
Grey light from the windows seeped across the chamber like a river fog, illuminating the parchment on Aindreas’s table, but casting no shadows. Raindrops tapped softly on the castle roof and darkened the wooden shutters. The duke’s midday meal sat before him, untouched and still warm. The flask of Sanbiri red was nearly empty.
Ioanna would have told him that it was too early to be drinking. She would have said that a man who was about to lead an army to war needed to be sober, that he needed to think clearly and be able to make decisions in an instant. Had she known this was his second flask, she would have been deeply disappointed. She might even have been ashamed. Had she known. Had she cared about anything anymore.
The Curgh boy had not only taken his daughter, but also his wife. Ean knew Aindreas hadn’t been the best of husbands. He had taken pleasure in more than his share of serving girls over the years and had done a damned poor job of keeping it from Ioanna. But he had never taken a mistress, or loved any woman other than his duchess. He still remembered how beautiful she looked the night he met her at her father’s castle, her golden hair falling to her waist, her dark eyes sparkling with candlelight. She had been like a gem, so exquisite he was almost afraid to approach her. Brienne had looked the same way the night she died. Brilliant as a jewel, more dear to him than all the riches in his treasury. The boy had taken everything from him. Or so it seemed. He had to remind himself at times that he still had Affery and Ennis, that they were suffering even more than he, for they had lost a sister to murder and their parents to grief. He should have been with them. In spite of the war that loomed before him, he should have been comforting them, assuring them that they were still loved. But he could no more give up his wine than Ioanna could give up her bed and the solitude in which she had taken refuge since Brienne’s death.
Instead, he pushed aside the plates of food, drained his glass, and poured the rest of the wine. Then he picked up the scrolls that lay before him. The first had come a few days ago, the same day that the messenger arrived from Audun’s Castle bearing news of the king’s death. Aindreas would never have believed that any letter could compete with such tidings for his attention. Yet this one had. It was from Kearney, the duke of Glyndwr, and it announced his intention to ride to Kentigern as some sort of peacemaker.
Kearney was a decent man. His father and Aindreas’s had been friends and allies, and for that reason alone Aindreas had a certain affection for the man. But perhaps owing to the remoteness of his dukedom and the low station of his house, Kearney remained younger than his years. He clung to ideals that had no place in the real world and he was prone to making grand, foolish gestures, as his le
tter made all too clear. His army, though reputed to be well trained, was small. Even if he left just a token force to guard his castle, he couldn’t have been bringing more than seven or eight hundred men. How could a force of that size hope to keep the armies of Kentigern and Curgh from going to war? Aindreas had every reason to ignore the message. Glyndwr was powerless to stop this war and he had no business trying.
Still, the letter remained on his table, and though Aindreas had not allowed it to stay his hand, neither had he been able to put Kearney’s plea for restraint out of his mind. Maybe it was because the letter and word of Aylyn’s passing had come on the same day, as if the gods themselves were warning him away from this war. Perhaps Aindreas had been moved by the sheer folly of what the man was doing. Surely Kearney and his renowned swordmaster knew that they were no match for the two armies. But they hadn’t allowed this to deter them.
Aindreas couldn’t say for certain why he kept the letter, or why he found himself reading it again and again. There was little to it really. He and Leilia were deeply saddened by the news of Brienne’s death, he would be leading a contingent of soldiers to Kentigern immediately, and he hoped that Aindreas would do nothing to bring the kingdom any closer to civil war. That was all. Even the language was rather plain. Save for the ending.
Brienne’s death is a tragedy for the entire land. They will sing of her beauty and strength long after you and I are gone. Let us not allow those songs to become dirges for the young men of Kentigern and Curgh. Let us not allow her memory to be darkened by the shadow of civil war.