Authors: Mark Anthony
“Sometimes I think the wind might blow us all away, Durge,” she murmured.
The furrows that marked the knight’s brow deepened in concern. He reached out a hand, as if to comfort her, but he changed the movement at the last moment and gestured clumsily for them to start down the hallway. “Come, my lady, this is a dim part of the castle. Let us return to more lighted ways.”
While they walked Grace kept her eyes open, as had become her habit, but she saw nothing unusual as they went. In fact, she had seen no signs of the mysterious persons
skulking about the castle since the night of the revel. She had told Durge and Aryn of the black-robed man she had glimpsed. For days after, the three of them had searched Calavere, but they had found no traces of the robed one, or of whoever—
Don’t you mean whatever, Grace
?
—had made the tiny footprints in the snow.
Grace turned her mind to more mundane mysteries, ones she had at least a slim chance of solving. She had spoken now with nobles belonging to the courts of nearly all the kings and queens of the Dominions, and day by day a clearer picture formed in her mind of the positions held by the various rulers.
As far as Grace could tell, Boreas had nothing to worry about with regard to Kylar—the young king of Galt was by his own admission a staunch supporter of Calavan. Persard of Perridon struck Grace as a bit more sly and unpredictable, but Lord Sul’s words supported Grace’s hunch that Perridon would follow Calavan’s lead at the council—as long as Persard believed he would gain by it.
Eminda was another matter altogether. Grace had not gotten remotely close to the queen of Eredane, but from conversations she had overheard among some of Eminda’s courtiers, she was beginning to think that if Boreas said the sky was blue, Eminda would issue a proclamation stating it was green. Eredane was a realm on the rise, and—as the oldest and strongest of the Dominions—Calavan was its chief rival. Grace suspected Eminda would perceive any action Boreas took as a direct counter to Eredane’s progress. Grace had said as much to Boreas in one of their brief meetings over the course of the last week. However, the king had only grunted, and whether he thought this—or any of the information Grace had given him—was useful, he had not said.
Still, Grace had done her best at the mission Boreas had assigned her, and she had largely succeeded. With at least some degree of certainty, she now knew where all the rulers stood on the issue of war.
All, that was, except Queen Ivalaine.
Grace had not dared to try to speak to the beautiful queen of Toloria again. The thought of those ice-colored eyes gazing
into her—as if they could see things no other could—made her feel naked and sick.
Why, Grace? What are you so afraid she’ll see? Are you terrified she’ll see you’re a witch! Or that there’s nothing inside of you at all
!
She pushed the question from her mind. It was not as if there had been opportunity to speak to any of the nobles in Ivalaine’s court. Most were like their queen—fair, faultless of manner, and far more likely to conjure secrets with their words than answer them.
A thought occurred to Grace. There was one other ruler whose motives she had learned little about in the last week. She gazed at the knight walking beside her. “What of your own king, Durge? Except for Ivalaine, I think I know the least about him of all.”
Durge blew a breath through his mustaches. “There is no need for you to waste your time spying on King Sorrin, my lady. I can tell you all you need to know of him. I’m afraid my liege is dying.”
“King Sorrin is ill?” Her doctor’s instincts replaced all other thoughts in her mind. “Has it been going on long? What are his symptoms?”
“No, my lady. It is no illness you might cure that ails King Sorrin. Indeed, I imagine he will live to a great age, and that makes it only the more bitter.”
Grace halted in mid-stride. “I don’t understand.”
“It is a malady of the mind that has struck my king. He dwells in constant fear of death, and so every day he is dying.”
Durge moved to a narrow window—an arrow loop, through which archers might fire out but not in—and peered at the thin strip of sky beyond. “Sorrin’s mortal fear has become a prison, stronger than any made of stone. Nor do I think he will ever escape it. His dread of death consumes him so that he thinks of nothing else. All day he pores over books about disease, and speaks only to his leeches, and drinks the potions they concoct. He has little time for others, or for running a kingdom.”
The knight was always solemn, but now there was a note of sorrow to his weatherworn face. Grace tried to draw in a breath, but her chest felt tight. It was the gown, of course. It
was so constricting, she shouldn’t wear it, even if Aryn did say the winter violet suited her.
She opened her mouth to say something—anything—that might make the knight feel better, but no words came out. If he were wounded, she would have known exactly how to help him. But this sadness …
“Lady Grace!” a clear voice called out.
Grace glanced up and saw a flash of sapphire rush toward them. “Lady Aryn,” she said, and tried not to sound too grateful for the interruption.
“Grace, I’m so glad I found you.” The young baroness’s cheeks glowed from exertion.
“Good morrow, Your Highness,” Durge said in his rough but gentle baritone. He made a stiff bow. “Though I warrant it won’t stay good for long. It looks like rain.”
Aryn blinked as if only now noticing the knight, and indeed his tunic and cloak were the exact color of the stone wall. She made a hasty curtsy. “Lord Durge.” She started to turn back to Grace, then glanced out the window. A frown crossed her pretty face. “But the sky is perfectly clear.”
Durge made no reply. He clasped his hands and gazed forward with deep brown eyes.
“Aryn, what is it?” Grace said.
Aryn’s blue eyes shone. “You’ll never guess who rode up to the castle gates only a few moments ago.”
“No,” Grace said, “I probably won’t.”
“Then you’ll just have to come see. If we wait outside the great hall, we might get a glimpse of them.” With her good hand she grabbed Grace and tugged her down the passage. “Oh, and you as well, Durge,” she added.
The Embarran hesitated, then gave a wordless nod and followed the two ladies down the corridor.
Travis stuck close to Beltan as they followed Falken, Melia, and a pair of stocky men-at-arms through the winding corridors of Calavere. He felt a little safer next to the big knight. But only a little.
The men-at-arms had greeted them when they rode up to the castle’s gate—if being met with hard gazes and sharp spears, then being ordered to leave their horses and follow, could be called
greeting
rather than
accosting
.
“It looks as if someone saw you coming, Falken,” Beltan had said, and he had drawn the hood of his green cloak up over his head, casting his face in shadow.
Falken had only grunted, and Travis had not taken this as a favorable sign. The bard hadn’t been exactly welcome at the last castle whose door they had knocked on. Did he expect better here? Or worse?
They came to a halt before a set of double doors.
“King Boreas is expecting you,” one of the men-at-arms said and gestured to the doors.
Melia gave Falken a speculative look. “You did say you were on King Boreas’s good side, didn’t you?”
Falken adjusted his cloak. “Is this on straight?”
“A little to the left.” Melia’s eyes flashed. “And don’t think I didn’t notice that you failed to answer my question.”
Falken shot her a wolfish grin. “Shall we go beg hospitality of the king?”
Melia rolled her eyes but said nothing.
Travis leaned toward Beltan. “Does he know what he’s doing?”
“Not nearly so often as he acts like he does.”
Together they pushed through the doors.
The great hall of Calavere was not unlike King Kel’s hall, except it was twice the size, the walls did not look as if they were about to crumble, and there were no wildmen in sight. A number of trestle tables stood folded against the walls, leaving the floor—strewn with fresh rushes—wide-open. A dais dominated the far end of the hall, and this in turn was dominated by the king of Calavan. Travis knew at once that, for all Kel’s swagger, Boreas was to the shaggy ruler of Kelcior what a bonfire was to a torch. This was no petty king.
Boreas sat on the dais in a folding wooden chair. The chair was gilded with gold, and its feet carved like lion paws. The king was a muscular man but not bulky, clad in close-fitting black trimmed with silver. His short beard gleamed with oil, and his eyes—more steel than sky—glinted in annoyance.
An older man with a neat gray beard stood a pace beside and a pace behind the throne, and several men-at-arms were arranged below the dais, along with a heap of gigantic black dogs—any one of which looked as if it could have comfortably housed Travis’s entire skull in its maw, and gladly would have done so.
Boreas turned his stormy gaze on the four travelers as they approached the dais. His voice rumbled over the hall like thunder.
“Well, Falken Blackhand, I know these are dark days indeed if you show up at my gate.”
“Greetings, Your Majesty.” Falken’s rich voice filled the hall. “It is good to see you are well.”
“And through no work of your own. But do not feign interest in my health, Falken. Tell me, why have you come to Calavere? I thought I was rid of the Grim Bard.”
Falken laughed. “You know well enough why I’m here, Your Majesty. I have come to speak to the council.”
Boreas snorted. “To bewilder the council with fanciful stories, isn’t that what you mean?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, stories. And, as a bard, I know that stories sometimes come true.”
The king appeared unimpressed by this statement. “Don’t try to muddle things with your riddles, Falken. I would have had my knights ride you back over the Darkwine Bridge were it not for the Lady Melia in your company.”
Melia made an exquisite curtsy. “Your Majesty, I see your manners are as elegant as ever.”
The king winced, and Travis bit his tongue to stifle a laugh. Something told him Boreas had thrown people to his dogs for less.
Boreas turned his attention back to the bard. “I don’t have time for this. Tell me why I shouldn’t just turn you away, Falken—Lady Melia in your company or no.”
Falken took another step nearer the dais. “We have ridden hard on a long journey, Your Majesty, and we humbly beg your hospitality.”
Boreas grunted but did not immediately refuse Falken’s request. From what Beltan had said, Travis knew even a king was bound by the laws of hospitality.
“Besides,” Falken went on, “there is one with us I think you will be glad to see.”
Travis frowned at the bard. Who was Falken talking about? Even as he wondered this, Beltan stepped forward and pushed back his hood.
“Hello, Uncle.”
Travis snapped his head around to stare at the tall knight.
Uncle
?
Boreas sat up straight on his throne. His eyes lit up—not with annoyance now, but with delight.
“By Vathris! Beltan!”
The king leaped from his chair, rushed down from the dais, and caught the knight in an embrace. Travis suspected the power of that hug would have crushed him to jelly. However, Beltan, if not as strapping as the king, was the taller, and he returned the embrace with equal strength.
Travis tried to understand what had just happened. How could Beltan be royalty? He was just … Beltan. But that wasn’t true, was it? Now that they stood together, Travis could see the family resemblance. Both of their faces bore the same strong nose, the same sharp and slightly dangerous lines. Travis’s heart soared for his friend—then as quickly it sank in his chest. Who was he to be friends with royalty?
Boreas stepped back from the blond knight. “So, you can’t be bothered to visit your uncle once in a while, can you, Beltan? How many years has it been since you last made your way here? Two? Three? Too long at any rate.” He cast a look of displeasure at the bard. “And what are you doing in the company of this scoundrel? I had not thought you’d throw your lot in with the likes of Falken Blackhand.” He raised a hand to shield his mouth and nodded toward Melia. “Though I warrant you,
she’s
worth hanging around.”
“
Uncle,
” Beltan said in a chiding tenor.
A clear voice interrupted the king and his nephew. “You still have not given us an answer, Your Majesty.”
Boreas turned away from Beltan, scowled, and advanced on the bard. “By Vathris, you know perfectly well I’m going to grant you hospitality, Falken. As if I had a choice.” He glanced at Beltan, and this time it was not only fondness in the look. “Though I still can’t understand why you’ve fallen in with this motley bunch, Beltan of Calavan. Then again,
even as a boy you always had your head stuck inside a helmet of your own forging.”
“In that I had a good model to follow, Uncle.”
Travis cringed, afraid this would only enrage the king further, but Boreas let out a great laugh and clapped Beltan on the back.
“Welcome home, Beltan. And yes, welcome to all of you, even to you, Falken Blackhand. I will not let you ruin this happy occasion, no matter how much you might try.”
Falken bowed and said nothing.
Boreas gestured to the gray-haired man on the dais. “My seneschal, Lord Alerain, will see to your needs. I’m afraid I have other matters to attend to. Keeping a kingdom running and all that—I’m sure you wouldn’t understand, Falken.”
The king did not wait for a response. He nodded to Beltan and Melia—but not to Falken or Travis—then strode from the great hall. A weight lifted from the air like the passing of a storm.
Melia raised a hand to her slender throat. “I won’t say that went well, but at least we still have our heads.”
Falken nodded, then laid a hand on Beltan’s shoulder. “So, is it good to be home?”
The knight shot Travis a look of concern and opened his mouth. However, Travis turned his back before Beltan could answer the question.
The doors of the great hall flew open, and as one, Grace, Aryn, and Durge leaped back from the place where they had been waiting. King Boreas stalked through, then strode past the three without even glancing in their direction. A trio of stern-faced men-at-arms hurried after him as he marched down a corridor and disappeared through an archway. Grace thought she had seen Boreas angry before, but now she was forced to downgrade any previous displays she had witnessed to merely
perturbed
.