“I don’t know that for certain.” But there was an admission in his denial.
“You fear that it’s so.”
Grinsa took a long breath. “Yes.”
“What are you going to do?”
He shrugged. “What can I do? It’s his fate.” Honesty had its limits, even where Cresenne was concerned.
She nodded. “I suppose you’re right.” She looked down at her hands, as if suddenly uncomfortable. “Is it terrible, this thing that’s going to happen to him?”
“Cresenne—”
“I’m sorry,” she said, quickly shaking her head. “Forget I asked. You’ve probably already told me more than you intended.”
He smiled again and took her hand. “I’m afraid I have. But how could I help it?”
Her cheeks colored and she leaned forward to kiss him lightly on the lips. “You can’t,” she whispered. “You can’t help it at all.”
She sat back, staring at him, her face as luminous as Panya, and in a motion as graceful as the flames she had conjured a short time before, she pulled his shirt off over her head. She shook her head so that her white hair fell down about her shoulders, framing a smile that made Grinsa’s heart pound within his chest. Her skin was so white it seemed to glow. His eyes wandered to her breasts, small and round and perfect, and slowly, as though of their own will, his hands reached for them. She leaned forward to kiss him once more, more deeply this time.
She was right, he knew. He couldn’t help himself. And in that moment, he didn’t really care.
Lying in bed, waiting for sleep and watching Panya’s light move slowly across the walls of the room, the Qirsi couldn’t help but smile.
A few days before, Tavis’s Fating had seemed a dangerous complication, one that might serve as a warning to the young lord, one that would upset their plans. Not anymore. The boy had been seen in the city, wandering about, enjoying the Revel. Or at least trying to.
All who saw him thought he looked glum; some said he seemed always to be on the verge of tears. But at least he was out of the castle.
Tavis’s Fating remained a mystery. With every day that passed, however, with every indication the young lord gave that he had recovered from the shock of that vision, the details of what he saw in the Qiran became less important. From what the Qirsi understood, no one knew what Tavis had seen except the gleaner and the boy himself. People in Curgh Castle and the city around it had heard only that the young lord had been deeply disturbed by his gleaning. And that, the Qirsi had also come to understand, might actually help deflect suspicion. Had his gleaning been of glory and long life, the fate that awaited Tavis in Kentigern might arouse memories of Filib of Thorald and his untimely death. As it was, this time next turn, people of Curgh would be talking of how Tavis had been marked for tragedy by the gods, and of how his Fating had already proven all too accurate. The substance of that Fating was no longer of any concern.
What mattered now was that the duke’s plans to take his son to Kentigern were still in place. There had been some talk of delaying the journey, possibly even canceling it. Not anymore, though. The gods, it seemed, were with them. Kentigern offered the assassins they had hired the perfect opportunity to carry out their plans. It was far away from where the Revel would be, which, after Thorald, was absolutely necessary. But more than that, Kentigern was Curgh’s rival, and Eibithar’s first line of defense along the Tarbin. This was almost too perfect.
The only problem that remained was the gleaner himself, and in the end the Qirsi was fairly confident that even Grinsa wouldn’t stand in their way. The man was bound by custom to tell no one what he had seen of Tavis’s Fating. The only question was how long he would keep silent if the young lord’s fate differed too greatly from what the stone had revealed.
In the end, the Qirsi decided, it wouldn’t matter. Grinsa was a Revel gleaner, nothing more. Even if he tried to raise questions about the boy’s fate, few would listen to him. Because in the days since Tavis’s attack on Xaver, the Qirsi had formed a plan, a brilliant plan. It bore little resemblance to the murder of Filib in Thorald, but it promised to be no less effective in upsetting the Order of Ascension. In fact, the Qirsi had good reason to hope that it might do far
more than that. If the assassin followed the instructions he had been given, nothing Grinsa did or said could save the boy.
Most importantly, the Qirsi knew that this plan would raise no suspicions. A simple murder might. Certainly another act of thievery gone wrong would. But not this. This would be utterly convincing. Tavis, by his recent actions, had made it so.
Kentigern, Eibithar, Elined’s Moon waxing
K
entigern Castle stood atop Kentigern Tor, forty leagues southwest of Curgh. A lone horseman pushing his mount, or even a small company taking advantage of the moons to ride past sunset, might have made the journey in four or five days. But the duke of Curgh had never been one to travel with a modest complement of servants, and leaving as they did with the first day of the new turn, they had no moonlight to speak of for the first several nights.
Before their departure from Curgh, Xaver’s father had urged Javan to take a large contingent of guards.
“It’s not just that I don’t trust Kentigern,” Hagan had said, “though I’ll admit that I don’t like you being under his roof without me there to keep an eye on things.”
“I need you here,” the duke told him. “I need to know that the duchess and my castle are safe.”
“I know that. But you’re going to be within sight of the Tarbin and a few thousand Aneiran soldiers. If I can’t go, you should take one hundred men with you, eighty at the least.”
Javan had laughed, laying a hand on Hagan’s shoulder. “I can’t show up at Kentigern with a force so large. Aindreas will think I’ve come for a siege rather than a betrothal. Besides, where would Aindreas put them all?”
Hagan tried to smile at the duke’s humor, but his face colored in a way Xaver recognized. He was truly concerned about their journey to Kentigern. Probably it didn’t help that Xaver was going as
well. His arm had healed, but he had only begun to practice with a sword again a few days before they left.
“Sixty, then,” Hagan said to the duke, as if haggling with a merchant in the city marketplace.
“I’ll take forty, Hagan. Tavis and Xaver are quite skilled with their swords, as am I. And we’ll have Fotir with us as well. You’ve nothing to worry about.”
Stubborn as he was, Xaver’s father knew when to back down in a discussion with the duke. “Yes, my lord.”
Even with this relatively small number of guards, their company numbered close to seventy. As always, the duke and Tavis had a number of their servants with them, as well as several cooks and tasters from the Curgh kitchens, and a few of the castle’s stablehands. As a result, the company had taken more than half the waxing to ride as far as they had, and still, on this, their eleventh day, they would be lucky to reach Kentigern before the ringing of the prior’s bell.
It had not been an enjoyable journey for Xaver. They skirted the coast of the Strait of Wantrae, which afforded them some fine views of Wantrae Island and, far in the distance, the shores of Braedon. But there was little else to see, save the Heneagh River, and once they crossed that and entered Kentigern Wood, there was even less to look at.
Tavis was uncharacteristically quiet throughout their travels, although he insisted on riding with Xaver nearly the entire way. Fotir and the duke usually rode ahead of them, talking quietly about one thing or another and offering Xaver little relief from his boredom.
The nights were no better. After eating their evening meal, Tavis would sneak off with a wineskin, leaving Xaver alone with the duke and his minister. Perhaps the young lord thought that he was being discreet, or maybe he didn’t care. But Xaver hadn’t failed to notice the dark expression Javan always wore as he watched his son skulk off into the night. After the second night, Xaver considered saying something to Tavis. He soon thought better of it, however. Too often he had found himself trapped between the duke and his friend. He wouldn’t put himself there again, not after all that had happened.
His anger at the duke’s son had ebbed, but he could not say that it was gone entirely, nor could he be certain that it ever would be.
Every day since their conversation in his chamber, Xaver had railed at himself for refusing Tavis’s offer of release from his oath. There was little else he could have done. He knew that. Yet, he punished himself anyway.
“What if I hate her?” Tavis asked suddenly.
They were riding side by side in the dense shadows of Kentigern Wood, their horses walking at a steady pace. The forest offered some relief from the heat of the day, but Tavis’s face was damp with sweat, as was his own.
“Who?”
“Brienne, of course. What if I meet her and decide that I can’t love her?”
“It’s a good marriage, Tavis.”
“That’s not—”
Xaver stopped him with a shake of his head. “Loving her is beside the point.” He couldn’t help but smile. “You’d hardly be the first duke or king in Eibithar’s history to take a mistress as compensation for a loveless marriage.”
He spoke in a low voice, but apparently his words carried on the wooded path, for a moment later the duke glanced back at them from atop his mount, a wry grin on his bearded face.
“You’ve a wise friend there, Tavis,” he said. “You’d do well to keep him by your side.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Xaver said, acknowledging the compliment with a nod.
Javan and Fotir slowed their mounts for a moment allowing Xaver and Tavis to pull abreast of them. The Qirsi nodded to the two boys, but said nothing.
“So you’re worried about meeting Brienne?” the duke asked his son, as the four of them began to ride together.
“Not really worried—”
“It’s all right,” Javan said. “I was so afraid of meeting your mother that I couldn’t keep down the food I ate at the feast. Her mother was so offended that she nearly called off the joining ceremony.”
Tavis gave a wan smile. “I’m sure Brienne will make a fine wife, Father.”
“I expect so, as long as she’s not too much like her father. Or her mother for that matter.” Javan and Fotir shared a grin. “The point is, Xaver’s right. We need Kentigern right now. This marriage
strengthens our house, and so strengthens the kingdom. Brienne will be a good queen. If you’re lucky, she’ll be a good wife as well. If not, you’ll find someone else to warm your bed, just as others in your position have.” Quite abruptly, the duke’s face reddened. “That’s not to say that I have. Your mother has been my love as well as my duchess.”
Tavis suppressed a smile. “Of course, Father.”
“It’s the truth!”
“Best to move on, my lord,” Fotir said, smirking and giving Xaver a quick wink.
Javan cleared his throat. “I quite agree.” He looked over at Xaver. “Have you ever been to Kentigern, Master MarCullet?”
“No, my lord.”
“Well then, you’ve got something to look forward to. No one is more fond of Curgh Castle than I, or more admiring of those who built it. Over the centuries the House of Curgh has withstood sieges that would have brought other houses to their knees. But that said, I’ve seen few castles as impressive as Kentigern and few cities as well fortified.”
“My father has told me much the same thing, my lord.”
“Don’t expect it to be as spacious as Curgh, or as elegant. In many ways it’s more a fortress than a castle. As close as it is to the Tarbin it has to be. But as Eibithar’s first defense against the Aneirans for the last thousand years, it has rarely failed us.”
A thousand years. The castle was older than the kingdom itself, as was the enmity between Eibithar and her neighbor to the south. Legend told that the wars over control of the Tarbin dated back to the days of Binthar and the ancient clan wars, when the only thing uniting the warring tribes of the north was their shared hatred of the southern clans.
“Has Kentigern ever fallen?” Tavis asked.
“Once, in Durril’s War. The Aneirans managed to hold it for a time, and the castle’s strength worked against Eibithar’s army. But Grig, Kentigern’s duke at the time, knew the fortress better than the Aneirans. One night, after Durril sent the bulk of his army northward to win Curgh and Heneagh as well, Grig managed to sneak a small force in through one of the sally ports. They took back the castle and Grig killed Durril.” Javan frowned, looking at his son and then at Xaver. “You both should know all of this. I’ve paid your
tutors enough silver and gold over the years to pave the streets of Curgh.”
“We know of the war, Father. But the tutors leave the study of military matters to Hagan, and he’s more concerned with teaching us sword craft. He says the other can wait until we’re skilled enough to defend ourselves.”
Javan glanced at Xaver, who shrugged.
“It’s true,” he said. “Father has never had much use for history, even when it pertains to waging war.”
His frown deepening, the duke shook his head. “I’ll have to discuss this with him when we return.” He looked over at Fotir. “Make a note of it.”
The Qirsi nodded, pulling from his riding cloak a small scroll and a writing quill.
“You were telling us of Durril’s War, Father,” Tavis prompted.
“There’s little else to tell. After Durril’s death, the Aneiran army was thrown into disarray. The king’s forces had little trouble driving them back across the Tarbin.”
“And that was the only time Kentigern fell?” Xaver asked.
“As far as I know. It withstood Aneiran sieges during the Bastard’s War and the Harvest War, and it also fought off sieges by other Eibitharian houses during the First Civil War and the Thorald-Curgh Alliance.”
Tavis’s eyes widened. “Did we lay siege to Kentigern?”
“Skeris the Third did, yes, but that was more than three hundred years ago.”
“And we couldn’t take the castle?”
Javan shook his head. “No, we couldn’t. To be honest, I wouldn’t want to try it now either, even with Aindreas leading them.” He glanced at Xaver. “Don’t tell your father I said so.”
All of them laughed. A moment later Tavis asked his father something else about one of the civil wars, and for a long time the four of them rode together, the duke giving Xaver and Tavis a lengthy lesson in Eibitharian history. For the first time since leaving Curgh, Xaver actually was glad to be traveling with the duke and his son, and much as he looked forward to arriving at Kentigern, he savored this last leg of their journey.
They emerged from Kentigern Wood just as the sun began to descend toward the the Strait of Wantrae. The air was hot and heavy
and dark thunderclouds gathered to the east, above Harrier Fen. Before them, perched like a great eagle atop the craggy, white mass of Kentigern Tor, stood the castle.
It was simply designed. As Javan had said, there was little elegance here. Like most fortress castles, including Audun’s Castle in the City of Kings, Kentigern consisted of an outer wall and a taller inner keep, both of them regular in shape and constructed of ponderous grey stone. Every wall of the fortress bristled with towers, some of them broader than others, but all of them lofty, no doubt affording the soldiers stationed on their ramparts clear views of the Tarbin, and the lands that lay beyond. Above the towers banners rose and fell lazily in the hot wind. Most bore the crest of Kentigern, a silver lynx standing upon a white mountain, framed by a bright blue background. But above the two towers that stood on either side of the nearest castle gate flew the purple and gold of the Kingdom of Eibithar and the brown and gold crest of Curgh.
Even at that moment, bathed as it was in the golden light of late day, Kentigern Castle could not be called beautiful, not as Galdasten was said to be, or Rennach. Rather, the castle looked as formidable and unassailable as the mountain on which it sat. It appeared as ancient as the stones that composed its walls, as though it had been there since Elined first laid her hand upon the Forelands. And it seemed to Xaver that the Goddess herself would never find the strength to topple it. Staring up at its towers and walls, he wondered how anyone could ever think to attack it. Which, perhaps, was what those who had built it had in mind.
On the slope of the tor and the broad plain stretching from its base, the small houses and markets of Kentigern City seemed to kneel before the castle, like the priests and priestesses of Ean offering obeisance in the cloisters. These smaller buildings were surrounded by an imposing wall that ran all the way up the tor to the castle. Towers rose from it at regular intervals, and Xaver could see at least two fortified gates from the edge of the wood. He could also see the spires of a sanctuary rising above the wall from the southeastern corner of the city. Xaver could not recall seeing any sanctuary with such tall towers, and he wondered which of the four gods the people of Kentigern honored.
“You’re looking at the sanctuary?” Fotir asked him in a low voice.
Surprised, Xaver turned to face him. “Yes, actually I was. Do you know which of the gods they worship there?”
“Such grand spires,” the Qirsi said, his yellow eyes still fixed on the sanctuary. “The people of Kentigern must love their god very much. Or perhaps fear him.”
Xaver said nothing, waiting for Fotir to answer his question. But already he knew what the first minister would say.
“It’s Bian’s Sanctuary. They worship the Deceiver.” He looked at Xaver and smiled in a way that made the young man shudder. “Don’t look so aghast, Master MarCullet. The people of Kentigern live under constant threat of attack. While some of Eibithar’s houses have gone centuries without fighting a battle, Kentigern has fought dozens of skirmishes with the Aneirans over the past five hundred years. Is it any wonder that they devote themselves to the god of the Underrealm?”