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.
T
he 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 himself. 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.
“What about Xaver?”
“I don’t know where he’ll be. Close by, I’m sure. But your attention should be on Brienne. I want you to do your best to make a favorable impression.”
“I should think that she’s the one who needs to worry about favorable impressions. Curgh is about to take the throne, not Kentigern.”
At that, his father did look at him. “We need this match, Tavis,” he said, his voice, though still quiet, carrying a hint of anger. “Don’t do anything to muck it up.”
Tavis almost protested. He was no stranger to court occasions. He had dined with dukes, thanes, earls, and barons. He once sat at the king’s right hand for a feast in Audun’s Castle. Hadn’t he proven himself to his father over the past few years? Hadn’t he acquitted himself well at the city gate that very day?
As if in answer, it all came back to him once again, sapping him of his certitude and resolve like an unseen blow in the middle of a sword fight. His Fating, what he had done to Xaver, his behavior at the banquet that same night, of which he remembered only scraps as well, though he had heard enough. His father had every reason to caution him in this way.
“Yes, sire,” he said at last, his voice barely carrying above the echo of their footsteps. “I’ll do my best.”
Javan nodded once and faced forward again. “Very good.”
They descended a narrow, spiral stairway, walked through another small corridor, and stopped in the wide doorway leading into the hall. With the exception of the enormous blue banner on the far side of the room, which bore an image of the silver lynx atop Kentigern Tor, the crest of Kentigern, there was little to separate this grand room from the duke’s hall in Curgh Castle. It was long and wide enough to accommodate more than a dozen of the long wooden tables on which servants were piling roasts, stews, cheeses, steamed greens and roots, bowls of fruit, and large flasks of wine. It had a high ceiling, supported by great, soaring stone arches. Torches were mounted on the walls, and candles flickered on every table and on wall sconces.
Near the far wall, just below the Kentigern crest, another large table stood atop a dais. This, of course, was where the dukes and their families would sit, but for now the table remained empty. No doubt Aindreas was waiting to enter the hall until Javan and his company had taken their seats. Tavis knew that his father would have done just the same had the banquet been in Curgh, but still he saw that Javan’s jaw tightened for just an instant.
“Come,” the duke said, unable to mask the annoyance in his tone. “It seems we’re to take our places before Aindreas makes his entrance.”
“Javan, duke of Curgh!” a man announced as Javan stepped into the room. “Lord Tavis of Curgh! Fotir jal Salene, first minister to the duke of Curgh! Master Xaver MarCullet of Curgh!”
Those who had already arrayed themselves around the lesser tables looked up from their wine and food and began to applaud.
Javan forced a smile, as did Tavis, and they made their way to the dais, nodding and waving to Aindreas’s other guests as they walked among the tables. Reaching the small stairway that led up to the main table, Javan hesitated.
“Do you know where we’re to sit?” Tavis asked.
“No,” his father said, looking annoyed again. “We’ll sit where we see fit. Let Aindreas arrange his people around us when he arrives.” He started up the stairs. “Just leave a place for Brienne beside you.”
“All right,” Tavis said, following him onto the dais.
Fotir and Xaver climbed the stairs as well, sitting to Tavis’s right, farther from the center of the table. Several servants approached them bearing food and wine. Tavis had to keep himself from draining his goblet as soon as it was filled.
“Touch nothing yet,” Javan said, looking at Tavis and then past him to Fotir and Xaver. “Seating ourselves is one thing. Eating or drinking without our host is quite another.”
Fortunately, they hadn’t long to wait. No doubt Aindreas had just been awaiting word of Javan’s arrival in the hall to make his appearance. Only a few moments after he and his father took their seats, Tavis heard a flurry of whispers from the tables nearest the hall entrance. The man who had announced their arrival a few moments before now stepped to the middle of the room, commanding everyone’s attention.
“Aindreas, duke of Kentigern!” he said. “Ioanna, duchess of Kentigern! Lady Brienne of Kentigern! Lady Affery of Kentigern! Lord Ennis of Kentigern!”
The duke entered the hall, followed by his wife, daughters, and son, all of whom looked tiny beside him. The other guests began to applaud.
“His Eminence Barret Crasthem, prelate of Kentigern, Disciple of Ean! Shurik jal Marcine, first minister to the duke of Kentigern!”
Tavis barely noticed the others. With the mention of Brienne’s name, his pulse had started to race, until all he could hear was the surging of his own blood. Seeing her did nothing to calm him. She
was as fair as her mother, perhaps more so. Like the duchess, she had long golden hair that fell to the small of her back in tiny ringlets. Her face was round, her cheeks and chin still slightly plump with youth. But already one could see in her features a hint of her mother’s delicate beauty; the fine nose and full lips, the large, round eyes, though Brienne’s were grey, like her father’s. She wore a sapphire gown, cut low enough to reveal the flawless grace of her neck and the beginning of the soft swell of her breasts.
“Not quite as you remembered her, eh?”
It took Tavis a moment to realize that the comment had been directed at him. He tore his eyes from Brienne and found that Xaver was watching him, a smile on his boyish face.
The young lord shook his head. “Not even a little.”
“Stand up!” Javan said in an urgent whisper. He and Fotir were already on their feet, and both of them were gesturing for Tavis and Xaver to rise as well.
They scrambled to their feet just as Aindreas ascended the steps to the dais.
“My Lord Curgh!” he said, his voice booming like a thunderclap. “We are most pleased to have you join us tonight.” He held out a huge hand, indicating the others in his party, who were joining them on the raised floor. “Allow me to present to you my daughter, Lady Brienne.”
Brienne curtsied deftly.
“A pleasure, my lady,” Javan said. “I see that you are blessed with your mother’s grace.”
“Thank you, my Lord Duke,” she said. “I am honored to see you again. Be welcome in our home.”
Javan placed a hand on Tavis’s shoulder. Tavis couldn’t remember the last time his father had touched him.
“This is my son, Lord Tavis.”
He and Brienne faced each other, and Tavis bowed, fearing as he did that he would topple over, or knock his head into her, or do some other fool thing to humiliate himself. For just an instant he wondered if a man could be thrown in a dungeon for offending a noblewoman. He thrust the thought away.
He straightened again. “My lady,” he said, not trusting himself with anything more.
She curtsied once more, smiling coyly. “My Lord Tavis. The last time we met we teased each other and fought like wild dogs. I hope we manage to get along better this time.”
The others laughed appreciatively, but Tavis merely smiled at her, searching for something clever to say in return.
“Our houses are on better terms now, my dear,” Aindreas said, beating him to it. “If Javan and I can get along, I would hope the two of you can as well.”
Once again the others laughed, and this time Tavis allowed himself to join in. But he and Brienne held each other’s gaze for a moment longer, and Tavis wondered how that homely girl he remembered from his last visit to Kentigern could possibly have grown into this woman before him.
In the next instant, the duke of Kentigern introduced them to his younger daughter, Affery, forcing Tavis and Brienne to break eye contact. The younger girl was pretty as well, though she could not have been much past Determining age. Then he presented his son, Ennis, who, though no more than eight or nine years, was the image of the duke, with red hair and a solid build. Finally, Aindreas introduced the prelate of Kentigern’s cloister, a tall, thin man named Barret who, like all of Ean’s prelates, had shaved his head, giving his narrow, bony face a buzzard-like appearance. He smiled at Javan, Tavis, and Xaver as he greeted them in turn, but his eyes held little warmth. He did not even look at Fotir, nor, for that matter, did he pay any heed to Shurik, Aindreas’s Qirsi minister. Nevyl, Curgh’s prelate, was much the same way. Perhaps he was a bit friendlier toward Eandi strangers, but he had little use for men or women of the sorcerer race.
“Please sit,” Ioanna said, pitching her voice so that all in the hall could hear her. “Our cooks have been days preparing for tonight’s feast. Eat freely, all of you. And be welcome in our home.”
Tavis almost sat, but remembered at the last moment to hold Brienne’s seat for her first. Then he lowered himself into his chair, accidently brushing her arm with his as he did.
“Excuse me,” he murmured, feeling his face color.
“You seem nervous, my lord,” she said. “Would you rather I sat elsewhere?”
“No!” he said, a bit too quickly.
She giggled. “Very well.”
Tavis gave a small smile. “Do you intend to keep mocking me for the rest of the evening?”
“Do I have to stop when the evening is done?” she asked innocently.
He couldn’t help but laugh. “And what have I done to deserve such treatment?”
“You don’t remember?”
His eyes widened. “Is this all about my last visit?”
“You were awful to me,” she said, though the smile lingered on her lips. “I’ve never forgotten.”
“I was ten years old,” he said. “And you were no less awful to me.”
“I was defending myself. I had to. You were merciless.”