"I wish we were in the same cell, Galli. Even without my codynnos I could probably do something for that eye."
"Bah, it'll be all right." Galli grinned a lopsided grin. "But they paid to get that one in."
"I'd imagine so."
"Aye, I think I broke one fellow's arm. A couple of noses, anyhow—but what do we do now?"
Kal sighed and stared absently at the starry sky beyond the window for a moment. "I can't say that I know, Galli. I can't say that I know."
"But Aelward and Broq," Galli said. "They'll be looking for us. Broq said so before they left on the Dancing Master. And when we don't arrive . . . ? Aelward won't know where we are."
"I can't say, Galli—"
"He won't know where to find us, and it doesn't look like we'll be getting there soon . . . . Or anywhere, for that matter, except to the gallows, perhaps."
"Easy, Galli, easy." Kal returned his attention to his friend. "I know it looks grim, but something tells me it's going to be all right. Look, do you remember how Gwyn behaved at the Seven Springs when Diggory about got carried off by the gathgours? Or when Relzor killed Wilum? Or on the wolf hunt in Nua Cearta, or when Kenulf shot my father? It was like he sensed danger before it even happened."
"Aye, he's a strange lad, that one," Galli said. He bent his head forward and fixed Kal with a penetrating stare. "What of it, though?"
"Well, he's changed, Galli. Remarkably so over the past several days. Something to do with Ruah's Well. It's like he was a rough blade, now honed true." Kal looked over at the sleeping Holdsman and continued, "You saw how his body was made sound by the water, even though he's still mute. But there's something else . . ."
"What, Kal?"
"Re'm ena, I know it sounds strange, but it's as though he knows how something is going to turn out in the end, for good or ill. And there's peace in him now. He seems completely without worry about our current predicament."
Galli shook his head, and his blond hair fell over his face, veiling his expression in deeper shadow. "I don't know, Kal, but if he's got some gift from Ruah, this will surely be the test of it."
"Aye, to be sure, to be sure," Kal said as if to himself, and grinned. "Anyway, there's naught we can do about it but wait and see."
"Well, I don't mind the wait," Galli said with dark humour. "It's what comes after the wait that concerns me."
"Don't worry. I trust the folk are safe, at least. Broq will get them to Aelward's Cot, don't you think? That is one less worry. Then Aelward may—"
Something moved, Kal was certain of it. Out of the corner of his eye, he had seen the slightest hint of a movement. Without shifting his head, he looked towards the sleeping gaoler. The man was still and quiet, elbows leaning heavily on his knees, his head bent forward, looking sound asleep. Then there was a glint, a tiny reflection of the brazier's subdued light. The gaoler's eye flickered, barely opening, gleaming dully with the orange glow of the coals, then shut again. Kal turned his head away from the gaoler and lifted a finger to his lips, then pointed with his thumb over his shoulder at the guard. Galli nodded in understanding and, following Kal's lead, withdrew to his own window.
For several minutes the silence was disturbed by only the restless slumber of the old man in the far cell. Then Kal heard the gaoler rise from his stool, stir up the coals in the brazier, and add more fuel, making no effort to be discreet. He coughed loudly and spat in the fire, then snatched up a torch from near the brazier, kindled it, briefly surveyed the cell block, and left the chamber.
"I'm afraid there are no secrets here, Galli," Kal whispered long after he had heard the gaoler's footsteps grow faint and disappear down the passage. "I hope we didn't say anything that might be used against us. I don't know how much he heard."
"I don't think so." Galli didn't sound certain.
"No, I'm sure not. But I think we should remain quiet now."
"Yes, that would be best. But what are we going to do?"
"Nothing, Galli. Nothing but wait and hope and trust. Maybe Gwyn's right."
"I truly hope he is."
Galli's words lingered, ringing in Kal's ear, until he heard approaching footfalls echoing down the stairs and along the passage to the prison.
The gaoler returned, carrying a heavy cast-iron pot and a dirty canvas sack. He touched his torch to another in a bracket on the wall and doused the first upside down in a bucket of water. From near the entrance to the cavern, he grabbed an iron trivet and set down both trivet and pot clattering over the brazier, then sat on his stool, poking desultorily at the coals and occasionally lifting the lid of the pot to stir its contents with the same iron rod he used to stir the fire. Soon a weak vinegary odour filled the cavern that made Kal's mouth water despite the acrid edge to the smell. He was hungry, and his stomach growled its complaint. As if in response, the gaoler pulled three deep tin plates from the cloth sack and ladled food from the pot into each. Reaching again into the bag, he produced a loaf of the black bread, which he tore into three pieces, dropping one unceremoniously into each of the dishes. These he carried to the Holdsmen.
"With 'er ladyship's regards," he said as he pushed Galli's plate to him under his door. "A late supper . . . Early breakf'st, if you prefer. Enjoy it while you can. May be your last."
"Thank you," Galli ventured to say, picking up the plate.
The gaoler checked himself, turning back to look at Galli. His face broke into a sneer of contempt. "You'll have less to thank me for soon enough, I should think."
Kal stirred Gwyn awake, and the two fell to their meal, leaning against the iron-grille door of the cell. It was a thin stew, comprised mostly of turnip and onion, with a few bits of unidentifiable meat that were almost too tough to be worth the chewing. But still, it was hot and filled his stomach, and for that Kal was grateful. They were soon wiping their plates clean with the remaining black crusts.
"Small blessings, eh, Gwyn?" He smiled at the red-haired Holdsman and placed his tin plate on the floor.
"Small blessings, indeed." The voice startled Kal, and he leapt to his feet, spinning around. It was the woman. She stood just two paces away, staring at him, her green eyes cold and hard. Half a dozen men, her lieutenant among them, stood behind her. "And you should be exceedingly grateful for small blessings at this point. In truth, you should be more than thankful for any blessing bestowed upon you—light!" The woman snapped her fingers, and, immediately, men began to ignite torches around the chamber, until ten of them blazed, flooding the space in firelight.
At the disturbance Gabaro awoke, muttering loudly until he saw the men; then he began to cackle.
"They've come for you! They've come for you! Down, down, down you go, Gwyn, Gwyn, Kalaquinn! Spies, spies, not spies! They've come for you! Down you go, down you go, Gwyn, Gw—" His ranting was cut short by a fit of coughing that left him doubled over and heaving for breath.
"Release him. Take him to his son's house," Bethsefra ordered, looking across the chamber to the old man's cell. Then, casting a glance over her shoulder at the soldier nearest to her, she said, "And, Lomric, tell his son that if this old fool tries his tricks again, it will be his son who pays for it."
"Yes, milady." The response was spoken, even as Gabaro's cell door swung open. The old man gamboled out, stooped but spry enough for his age.
"Thankee, thankee, lady," he piped as he made to approach Bethsefra. Thinking better of it, however, he stopped, turned heel, and sauntered off behind the two soldiers that led the way out of the prison chamber. His mad giggling faded into the rock beneath the citadel.
In the light, Kal noticed that the young woman had changed from the rough garb of the field of martial exercise into garments that, though masculine, fit her form more agreeably. He followed the delicate line of her neck with his gaze and discerned the shapely curve of her torso, waist, and thigh beneath the belted leather tunic and leggings that she wore.
"What is it that you admire, Master Kalaquinn?" she said, rounding to fix him with an icy gaze
. He felt his neck, ears, and face prickle.
"I-I was . . . I . . . my lady, I—"
"Well, as you seem to be indisposed, I will tell you what I admire." She reached behind herself and, with a flourish, unsheathed a sword. The long blade rang from the scabbard and spun through the air, glinting and flashing in the torchlight. The blade whirled at her side, wheeled over her head, and its tip came to rest between the iron bars but a hand's breadth from Kal's chest. "I admire a fine sword," she said, "and this is among the finest I've ever seen."
Kal's eyes traced the razor-edged length of steel. The bronze hilt looked heavy in the woman's hand, yet, despite the size of the sword, she held her hand steady, her arm fully extended, stiff and unwavering, her balanced sideways stance that of a trained swordsman. She slowly twisted the weapon in the space between them, revealing first one face of the blade then the other, both etched and chased in a filigree of Old Arvonian characters. Light flashed red and faded as the torchlight caught the two small gems set in the hawk's head quillion block over the shoulder of the steel blade.
"Perhaps the finest," she stated.
"Rhodangalas . . . ," Kal whispered, barely more than mouthing the word. He looked up at the woman. She arched an eyebrow. In the light that filled the prison, Kal saw that Bethsefra's green eyes were fringed by a ring of violet, each like dark emerald set in the deepest amethyst. The woman lifted a corner of her mouth in a half-smile that Kal recognized as anything but friendly.
"Ah," she said, "you know the blade."
"M-my sword. Yes, Rhodangalas."
"Indeed?" Bethsefra withdrew the sword point from the Holdsman's chest and laid the blade flat in her palm. " 'I am Rhodangalas, truest offspring of the craft of New Forge,' " she read aloud, then turned the blade over in her hands. " 'Who would wield me must be swift of limb and keen of eye and true of heart.' True of heart . . ." She repeated the phrase and looked up at Kal. "A curious weapon to be carried by a fisherman, wouldn't you say?"
"I did not say we were fishing, simply in a fishing boat."
"Ah. But you are a bard?"
"Yes."
"And this . . ." She lifted the blade. "Rhodangalas . . . This is your sword?"
"Aye. Yes, a gift from a friend."
"Indeed? It is no ordinary gift."
"It was no ordinary friend."
"Hmm . . . And you, you are 'true of heart'?" she asked as if reading the words again, but did not wait for a reply before she continued. "We shall see. There may be truth in what you say. Your friend's story corroborates yours. Three men, highlanders all, one a bard, one a mute, caught at sea in a small fishing boat. It was a vicious Calathros gale that blew last night. Such storms are wont to happen. It is seasonable . . . But then so are spies seasonable." Her eyes narrowed, and Kal grew wary. The woman bent her head in Galli's direction. "Your friend here, he is no ordinary friend—tattooed after the fashion of the Telessarians. He swears he's a true highlander, but we all know that Ferabek engages the assistance of trackers from Telessar. Did you know that Ferabek uses Telessarians?" Again she awaited no response but began to pace slowly back and forth in front of Kal's cell. "Torras and Lysak are the sycophantic pets of Ferabek. Fawning leeches. He is their liege lord." She paused and lifted the sword blade in front of herself, as if reflecting on its keen edge. "Truly, a magnificent weapon . . . . Tell me, who is your liege lord, Kalaquinn Wright?" She lifted her gaze and held Kal in a stony stare, then quickly turned away and handed the sword to the soldier behind her, who held its scabbard.
He fought to keep his temper under control. He found that this woman's questions and tone nettled him, and yet in her presence he felt unhinged by a strange allure. Indeed, the more he watched her, the more he realized that she had an inexplicable power over him, not entirely unlike the thrall that the Boar himself was able to impose upon those in his presence. But this woman's charm bore none of the elemental malevolence that Ferabek's did. Rather, hers was born of grace, a strength of beauty that Kal felt more than saw. She was beautiful—not simply pretty but profoundly handsome. Given the current circumstances, the fact only vexed Kal. He heard her repeat her question, and her insistent tone further fueled his ire.
"I serve the rightful heir to the throne of Arvon," Kal said, an edge of defiance in his voice.
"Ah, the rightful heir to the throne of Arvon . . ." She resumed pacing. "An ambiguous answer to a simple question. Do you know—ah, perhaps you do, but I shall tell you anyway. Torras, king of Melderenys, styles himself the rightful heir to the throne of Arvon by virtue of his claim to the Seaheld Throne at one time established in these isles of the Arvonian Sea"—she swept an arm in gesture toward something that lay beyond the walls of the prison—"what was once the realm of Ogasny-enesou. To assert his claim, he seeks to unite the two seaholdings by stealing authority from my ailing father and marrying me off to his own pustular blister of a son."
Kal had been unable to hide his expression of bewilderment. That the throne of Arvon had at one point been established in Tarkhuna, the capital of what was now Melderenys, was a fact commonly known, but that anyone would seek to press a claim to the high kingship of Arvon by reestablishing the Seaheld Throne . . . ?
"Ah, this comes as a surprise to you?" Bethsefra was watching him. "Perhaps my father is correct. Perhaps you and your companions are not spies. Perhaps you were simply hapless enough to have blundered into the middle of our quarrel and be mistaken for them. But then again . . ."
Silence fell over the prison, and Kal could hear only the hiss of the burning torches, a sound that seemed grossly amplified by the night stillness, coupled with the weight of tension that burdened the chamber's atmosphere.
"Tell me how you have come to know Aelward and his servant Broq." Kal was as surprised by the nature of the question as by its suddenness. "It has come to our attention that you know Aelward. What is your association with him?"
Kal's eyes flicked to the gaoler hovering near the brazier. The man winked at him, touched his finger to the side of his nose, and then grinned viciously.
"Tell me how you have come to know Aelward," Bethsefra repeated. "And what is your association with Wilum, High Bard and Keeper of the Talamadh?"
Kal found his mind reeling again, set off-kilter by the tough woman interrogating him. Next to him in the cell, Gwyn stood smiling serenely to himself. He looked at him with sparkling eyes beneath the shock of red hair that shone in the torchlight. He nodded at Kal, and Kal felt a peace settle over his own heart with a sensation not unlike the warmth of a hearth fire that first eases and then drives away the damp chill of a winter's day. He turned to see the woman still looking at him hard. To his surprise, a response sprang easily to his mind and his lips.
"Master Wilum, the Hordanu, I count as mentor and friend, and I have had many occasions, even from my years of earliest memory, to visit him at Wuldor's Howe in the Clanholding of Lammermorn. Indeed, it was at his hand that I was made a bard." Kal instinctively touched the pios at his throat, and he saw Bethsefra's eyes widen slightly at the revelation. He had caught her off guard, and he could not help but feel a smug sense of satisfaction. "Broq I have met, Aelward I have not. But it was at Aelward's invitation and Master Wilum's insistence that I led a band of my own people, some thirty in total, to meet Aelward himself. To achieve that end did I first meet Broq. But circumstances have separated me and my closest companions from the rest of my party."
Kal was pleased with his account. He had spoken the truth and yet had not been indiscreet with any detail that would have betrayed his full identity or purpose. Though Bethsefra remained stonily silent, her astonishment was obvious, and Kal could tell from her reaction to his words that, as yet, news of the fall of the Great Glence and Wilum's death had not yet reached the remote seaholdings. That was a good thing, Kal realized, or it might have complicated matters and begged further explanation.
"I must consult with my father."
"May we be brought before the king? May we plead our case and of
fer evidence of our goodwill?"
"No, it is not possible," the woman stated flatly.
"Is there no way that we may we see him?" Kal pressed.
"No, it is not possible!" Bethsefra snapped. She turned away from Kal and paced across the room, paused, then strode out of the prison chamber, her men-at-arms following close at her heels. Their footsteps faded and disappeared.
Kal glanced at Gwyn beside him. The mute Holdsman smiled broadly, nodded, and retreated to the back of the cell to stare out over the water of Swanskeld Sound. Galli, in his own cell, merely shrugged at Kal, but spoke no word. It was nearly a quarter of an hour later that the clattering sound of boots on stone steps grew louder, and Bethsefra reappeared with her soldiers.
"While it fails to impress me," Bethsefra said, coming to stand before Kal with her fists firmly planted on her hips, "what you have said impresses my father, the king, and the king is of a mind to set you free. I, however, am reluctant to do so. Too many times have Torras and Lysak played us the fool. Sadly for you, trust has been the first and most costly casualty in this our subtle war of intrigue, connivance, and deceit."
"But, the king—" Kal started to speak but was silenced as Bethsefra lifted her hand to stop him.
"My father is impressed that you claim to know Master Wilum so closely, and that you also claim knowledge of Aelward."
"As I said, I have not met Aelward yet, but was on my way to do so."
"Yes, but you speak of Aelward with ease, and his is a name that does not rest easily on the tongues of the wicked . . . ." Bethsefra's words drifted into thought. It was several moments before she spoke again. "We have come to know Aelward from his travels over the years. More than once has Aelward the Wise journeyed to our isles, and he is friend to the House of Swanskeld, though his last sojourn was many years ago, when I was but a little girl upon the knee of a healthy man. My father avers that anyone who can lay claim to Aelward's friendship may lay claim to his own and that of his house."
Darkling Fields of Arvon Page 29