Sword of Hemlock (Lords of Syon Saga Book 1) (12 page)

Chul looked up at her gratefully, his mouth still stuffed
overfull with hot buttered bread and the last poached egg, even while he
grabbed at the roast quail.  He had never seen so much food in one place, and
he doubted he would again.  “Good,” he grunted in Syonese around his food,
nearly spilling it back onto his plate.

“Oh,” laughed Greta with obvious pleasure, “but don’t slow
down now, lad.  I’ve roast leg of lamb on the fire, and for dessert, some
Amaranth St. Guiron, lovely, lovely, steamed in brandywine with crunchy little
trunkala berries all over the top, delightful.”  Then she patted his shoulder
and picked up the empty serving plates to carry back to the kitchen.

“Chul?”

The boy looked up in surprise, having just lifted the quail
to his lips and taken a messy bite.

He was suddenly conscious of the cherry sauce dribbling from
his chin.  In the doorway stood an Invader woman unlike any he had ever seen. 
She wore her long dark bronze hair in a style like those of the other Invader
women, in curious twirling vines and waterfalls about her head and shoulders,
so completely unlike the cropped hair of the tribeswomen that he could not help
but stare. She wore one of those impossible gowns that drug the ground about
her feet, and at first glance, she looked like the rest of the Invader women he
had seen.  But even a boy of fifteen could see she was not like them.  Her eyes
were like those of the eagle, he saw, amber and clear, farseeing.  Her young
face was strong and wise, and it spoke to him of honor, of courage.  Of grief.

Renda of Brannagh is fully as valiant a warrior as our own
chief.

But she looked so different from the dirty armored knight
who had come back to the tribes with Aidan.  Still, the eyes were unmistakable.

“L–Lady Renda?” he ventured.

She smiled and bowed her head graciously.  “Welcome to
Castle Brannagh.”

Chul hesitated.  The proper greeting from a manchild to a
warrior was to cross the backs of his hands over his forehead, an acceptance of
all the warrior would teach him.  Obviously such a greeting to a tribeswoman
would be a dire insult.  On the other hand, Lady Renda was not a tribeswoman,
and she was properly a warrior.  But since Aidan had ridden with her, she
probably understood something of their ways, and she might take offense. 
Either way.  He looked away, hopelessly entangled.

Greta came to the boy’s rescue from the kitchen with new
platters full of neatly carved roast lamb and her famous Amaranth St. Guiron. 

“Ah,” Renda laughed, “I see Greta has found someone to feed
at last.”

“Indeed, my lady,” crinkled the old woman.  “Oh, it’s not
since Master Roquandor was a boy, gods rest him, that I’ve seen such a good
eater!”  She settled the platters right beside Chul and began piling more food
on his plate.  Then she looked up at Renda.  “Oh, but there’s plenty more,
child!  Sit you down, and I shall fetch you a plate!”  And then, just as
suddenly as she had entered, Greta bustled from the room.

“Chul,” said Renda, taking a seat at the table. “You know
that night will fall within the hour.”

The boy nodded, nibbling at the quail’s absurdly tiny leg.

“So.”  She crossed her hands atop the table.  “I have just
come from my father’s chambers, and he and I are agreed.  We should be pleased
to keep you as our guest tonight at Brannagh.  Tomorrow after breakfast, Gikka
will come to fetch you, as Aidan has requested.  Would that suit you?”

The boy looked at her a moment, then glanced at the table
heaped with food. He nodded vigorously.

“Splendid.”  She drew a sealed scroll from her sleeve and
held it out to a maid.  “See that this message reaches Graymonde Hall tonight.”

But the girl did not seem to hear her.  Chul looked up in
the brief, awkward silence to see the maid simply staring at him, her thoughts
transparent on her face, so much so that he suddenly felt undressed.  Aidan had
warned him that Invader women reacted strangely to Dhanani men—strangely, he
had said, but not unpleasantly.  He’d tried to press Aidan for details, but the
shaman had only smiled an odd and almost wistful smile.  Still, Aidan had
cautioned him to stay clear.  While Invader women were very friendly to Dhanani
men, or more likely because of it, Invader men tended to be jealous and
distrustful of them.

He felt the maid’s gaze travel lovingly over his face, his
eyes, the hundreds of silken black braids that hung to the middle of his chest,
his hard Dhanani body bound in skin-tight leathers, his bare arm bound by his
gold leather storyskin which would one day be embroidered with tales of his
adventures...  He licked his lips, and the girl fairly swooned.

“Sondra.”

“Oh, aye, my lady.”  The maid flushed deeply and took the
message, not meeting Chul’s eye, not seeing the glint of puzzled amusement
there.  Then she curtseyed and fairly fled the room.

Greta came into the dining chamber again with a stack of
clean plates and knives.  “Will his Honor and Her Ladyship be coming down for
supper later on?  The maids are wondering if they should be making up the trays
again.”

“That won’t be necessary, Greta,” came the sheriff’s voice
from the doorway.  Chul looked up to see a tall man who reminded him strongly
of Chief Bakti.  His hair was silver-gray and broke at his shoulders in thick
waves, and his beard was neatly trimmed, unlike so many of the Invader men. 
His eyes were steel flecked with flint, the kind of eyes that could see
everything in a man’s soul at once, and Chul felt the urge to look away, but he
did not.  The man was dressed for supper in a fine doublet of deep blue over
deep gray and black breeches, and beside him stood a gracious woman in
shimmering silvery gowns with platinum ribbons laced through the tiny intricate
braids and cascades of her silvered copper hair.  But for a score of years and
eyes of the brightest blue, she could have been Lady Renda.

“Chul,” said Renda, “may I present Lord Daerwin, the Sheriff
of Brannagh, and Lady Glynnis.  Father, Mother, Chul Ka-Dree.”

The boy stood awkwardly, almost knocking his plate to the
floor, and bowed as Aidan had taught him, wiping away the soufflé at the
corners of his mouth as well as the cherry juice on his chin.  “Chul Ka-Dree,”
he repeated with a cracking voice, raising his hands to cross them over his
forehead.

The sheriff looked into the young man’s eyes, ignoring the
child’s gesture and clasped his forearm as if Chul were already a warrior. 
“Welcome.”

Chul saw Lady Glynnis take in the sight of the boy’s beaten
face and the scabby patches of scalp that showed between his many braids, and
he almost looked away, embarrassed not for himself but for his father, who was
not here to defend his actions.  But at once, the beautiful woman beamed at him
and swept into the dining chamber as if she’d seen nothing at all.

“Sit, Chul,” she said with a gracious smile.  “We’re most
pleased to make your acquaintance, but we did not mean to stop your meal, sit! 
Greta,” she called, “do let’s set aside formality and make of this our own
private supper.”  She lowered her voice.  “I should think the whole thing
rather overwhelming otherwise.”

Greta nodded and instructed the maids to set up the great
hall for the rest of the household. Then, with an insistent clap of her hands,
she chased the giggling maids out, that she might serve the family herself this
evening.

Lady Glynnis picked up a plate and a knife for herself
before she settled in a seat beside Chul, and the boy unconsciously stiffened. 
“Oh, come,” she smiled, leaning over her silk sleeves and taking in the whole
table with her eyes, “tell me, which do you like best, hm?”

Suddenly much more at ease, Chul pointed to an empty plate
where only a few crumbs from the cheese tarts remained.

“Quite so!” cried the sheriff. He took his own plate and
knife and sat beside his daughter.  “Greta, by all means, fetch along more
cheese tarts!  For my own part,” he said, picking up the plate of Amaranth St.
Guiron and serving himself, “I rather like this the best.”

Over the course of the meal, he’d not trusted his voice to
more than single words in Syonese, not wanting to embarrass himself, but they
had listened so intently to his stories of his father’s hunts and battles,
stories that he’d learned by rote and kept sacred in his heart, that he had
fought his way through.  Lady Glynnis patiently helped him find the words he
needed, and they’d all been so impressed when he spread his father’s
embroidered gold storyskin on the table before them.

Toward the end of the meal, the boy’s fatigue got the better
of him, and he began to yawn and drowse visibly.

“Chul,” said Renda, and he jerked awake at the touch of her
hand on his arm.  She looked up at a tall wiry man who stood beside her.  “This
is Sedrik, my father’s valet.”

The servant smiled easily and bowed.

“He will see you to your bed.”  Renda smiled and helped the
groggy boy to stand.  “Go with him, now.”

Chul nodded gratefully and followed the servant away from
the table and through the corridors.

“Can you imagine such dedication to his father,” breathed
Lady Glynnis once the boy was gone, “and while he still bears the marks of his
last beating?”

The sheriff sat back in his chair and crossed one leg over
the other.  “How many times did he compare himself against his father, saying,
‘I will never be as great,’ or ‘He deserved a better son than me’?   I do not
envy Gikka this charge.”  He shook his head sadly.  “Vaccar’s evil will
continue, I’m afraid, even after the last of these cuts has gone to scar.”

“I had no idea…”  Renda murmured quietly.  “When Vaccar
fought alongside us, I knew him only as a fierce warrior, just like Aidan or
Chief Bakti.  So I assumed that away from the battlefield, he was also like
Aidan, quiet and kind.”  She shook her head.  “I never thought otherwise.”

Daerwin smiled gently.  “Why would you?  Aidan was, until
that time, the only Dhanani you had ever seen.  But you must remember Aidan was
not like the warriors, not even like the Chief.  Bakti is a great man, but he
is first of all a warrior.  The day he is no longer a warrior is the day he no
longer leads the tribes of the Kharkara Plains.  Aidan is very different.
Beyond that, in leaving the tribe as he did to fight alongside us, he changed. 
Few men are his equal.”

“Aye,” she agreed.  “Most men would be found wanting,
measured against Aidan, even other Dhanani.” 

Lady Glynnis raised a brow.  “Speaking of which, I trust you
set a watch on the maids.”

Renda nodded with a laugh.  “It seems Greta remembered
Aidan’s first visit to Brannagh quite vividly and had already arranged for a
watch before I thought of it.” 

Aidan, for all that he was not even a warrior, had been
quite the distraction.  She wondered now as she had several times over the
years how it was she had always kept aloof.  But then, her whole spirit had
been completely taken up with the discipline of battle, and by the time the war
was over, other duties imposed upon her and Aidan had returned to the Plains. 
Besides, she supposed she loved him too well as a comrade-in-arms to be so
easily infatuated.  She hoped that was why. 

Her thoughts flickered over Kerrick, his proposal and the
strange feelings of longing and emptiness in her heart.

“In any case,” Glynnis smiled, “it is good that Gikka comes
to fetch him tomorrow.”

Daerwin sighed, looking after where Sedrik had led the
drowsy boy away.  “I only hope Gikka can help him find his way to a new life. 
Speaking of such things,” he said, rising to his feet, “I have petitioned to
have a cardinal sent to us to cleanse the castle, the temple, the whole of our
lands if need be.”

“And to consecrate dear Pegrine’s grave,” added Lady Glynnis
weakly, and the façade of cheer crumbled away from her features.

“Of course, my dear.”  The sheriff looked up at her.  “That
goes without saying.  Another bishop might perhaps be strong enough, but a
cardinal would make doubly sure.  In any case, he should be able to heal the
boy’s wounds, perhaps clear away those scars…the better to help him forget.” 
He sighed.  “To our misfortune, the soonest the petition shall have voice is a
score of days—”

“Half a month?” gasped Renda.

“Aye, and a full tenday or more beyond that before the
cardinal arrives at our door.  That, assuming he can leave forthwith.  We may
not see him until the Feast of Bilkar.”  He rubbed his eyes.  “Meanwhile, the
woods grow restless, and I hear the servants whispering of voices and chills in
the castle.  I suppose it’s inevitable.  The child may lie innocently by, but
while she remains unconsecrated, the superstitious will speak of ghosts and creatures
of darkness.”

“And they may try to take action,” Renda frowned.

“By the gods,” breathed Lady Glynnis.

“Must we wait for a cardinal of B’radik, then?”  Renda
looked anxiously from her father to her mother.  “Her bishop was corrupt; how
can we know whether we might trust Her cardinal?  And if Her cardinal should be
likewise corrupted.” Renda suppressed a shiver.  “Assuming he yet lives…”

The sheriff smiled sadly.  “My thought exactly.  Thus I have
sent my message not only to B’radik’s High Temple in Brannford but to every
basilica and temple, every metropolitan, every seat of every wholesome god,
that the nearest may come to our aid forthwith.   Well, not the nearest.  That
would be the Bilkarian Abbey, and as powerful as the Bilkarians are, I’m afraid
Abbot Laniel will be of little use in this.”

Renda nodded. “Of course, B’radik’s High Temple is the next
nearest.”  If they must wait almost a month for B’radik’s cardinal, they would
wait much longer for any other.

The sheriff chuckled darkly.  “We may well find ourselves
host to a grand convention of clergy, but better that than none at all.”