Sword of Hemlock (Lords of Syon Saga Book 1) (33 page)

Most of the floor glowed with only the barest glimmer of red
light, no more than a hint under the deep black of the obsidian, but as he
approached the center of the great hall, the place best guarded in the whole
keep, the light grew brighter—ever so slightly brighter—barely enough that he
should notice.  Dith licked his lips and stashed the tiny bit of cloth in his
rucksack.

He brushed aside what he could with his foot, clearing a
path toward the center of the hall where the debris was heaped the highest.  He
kicked violently at the thick piles of stone that blocked his view of the
floor, then got down on his knees to push it all aside, to rake it away until
his hands bled with cuts.  His mind only barely registered the burned black rug
he pulled away at last.

Then he sat back.  The name he had just called out still
hung on the air.  Galorin!  But no; Galorin was not here.  Just where the floor
should have been hottest, just where it should have glowed bright red, it was
cold and black.  He was looking at a huge black bubble in the obsidian.

Dith laughed bitterly and fingered the burned rug he had
cast away so hastily.  A modest rug, he saw now, set down to cover the only
flaw in the whole keep.  Tears dribbled meanly down his face, and he brushed
them away with an angry swipe to hear them sizzle over the hot obsidian.  He
had touched the illusion.  He had touched the illusion and found it wanting,
and now Galorin’s Keep fell cheap to his eye.

Sizzle.

The sound was gone now, but that stone had not been hot
enough to...  He rose suddenly, feeling a great heat beneath his feet.  He
backed away, watching the red glow rise, not over the whole floor, to his utter
relief, but just around the blackness of the bubble.  Thready white-hot veins
wormed tiny delicate ways through the topmost layer above the bubble, vaporizing
the stone in gentle puffs as they went until at last, the floor stood open. 
Then they subsided, and the red heat cooled away.

Below the open floor, obsidian stairs gleamed in the
sunlight that fell through the open ceiling, a spiral of black glass untouched
in the harrowing of the keep, and in the chamber below, bathed in the subsiding
glow of the mountain’s lifeblood... 

“Oh, my sweet Gikka.”  Dith squeezed the strap of his
rucksack and descended the stairway into the heart of Galorin’s Keep.

Castle Brannagh

B
esides
the sheriff and herself, only a dozen knights remained now who still showed no
signs of the plague, and Renda had brought these last few out into the fields
once more, perhaps for the last time before the frosts, to gather as much of
the remaining grain as they could. Field after field remained unharvested and
likely would.  They would continue the harvest as long as they could after the
Feast of Bilkar, but once the fields froze, the remaining grain would not be
worth gathering.

She smiled coldly to think how much she sounded like her
father now, worrying after the grain.  But this was a battle she could win, or
at least fight.  She could do nothing about the plague.

The grim truth was that with so many dead or dying, they
likely already had enough grain gathered, or near enough.  They might have a
lean year, but Brannagh would not starve.  And while they would not have any
grain to sell, the other noble houses should be able to manage without Brannagh
grain, assuming the plague was kept just to Brannagh lands.  Syon would not
starve.

Once again, Brannagh’s knights were dying for Syon.

Watching them die under the impotent touch of the priests
had been hard enough, but now she felt each loss all the more keenly because of
the handful of cures the priests had worked.  When there was no cure, there had
been no hope to dash.

Two of the five cured, the two worst stricken, were kept
asleep until their wounds could be finally healed, and the other three bore
wicked scars, but they were alive.  As far as anyone could tell, no single
trait marked these five, no peculiar strength or virtue, save that each was a
knight and not a villager, and so their cures had had to be kept secret.  The
cures had come hard upon each other, all within the space of two days, but near
a month had passed since the priests had managed to cure anyone else.  So no
one, not even her father who had witnessed each miracle as it happened, was
fool enough to take hope from the cures, not even enough to hope for one more.

She hoped that the plague had not reached as far as Windale,
but she had heard no word from Sir Kerrick or the knights who had accompanied
him, and she feared the worst.

She swung her scythe viciously through the wheat, wondering
as she often did of late whether she was standing in yet another field cutting
through another row of grain or whether she lay in bed dreaming it.  Not that
it mattered.  She was certain she hewed her way through as much grain in her
dreams as she did in the fields, and, as exhausted as she was right now, she
might be doing both, for all of her.  She stopped a moment to wipe her blade
and found herself looking once again toward the west, toward Farras.

“Renda.”  The sheriff set down his scythe and mopped the
sweat from his face in spite of the cold air, and though his voice was quiet,
she could not miss the weary tone.  “You were there when Colaris returned.  The
scrollcase was empty.  You gave her warning and well in advance; what more did
she need?”  He smiled encouragingly.

She looked up at him.  “I tell myself so,” she frowned,
turning again toward Farras, “but I cannot help but recall the sneer on
Maddock’s face.  He had her sword, Father.  Gikka would never part with that
sword.”

“Which is precisely why they believe she is dead.”

“But I wonder that she has yet to reclaim it or send word to
us.”  She almost could not form the thought, much less speak it aloud.  “Is it
possible he actually killed her, Father?”

“He did not bring back her body, Renda.”  Lord Daerwin
touched her torn tunic sleeve.  “Take courage from that simple truth.  Had he
killed her, he would have carried her on his own back, if need be, to hang her
upon our gates.  As to why she has not yet reclaimed it,” he shrugged.  “I
could name a score of reasons, as could you, were you any less worried for
her.”

“Perhaps,” she sighed and looked toward the field ahead of
her.  Suddenly the two knights who stood sentry in the fields reached for their
swords.

“Peace, peace!” cried the Bremondine man, raising his hands
above his head.  He waved back over his shoulder to where Matow was following
behind him.  “Can’t keep up, that one, on account of his poor legs, but it’s
him as sends me this way, lads.”  He spied Lady Renda and moved toward her, but
the two sentry knights held him back with their swords.  “I bring news from
Farras.”

“No, it’s all right.”  At Renda’s word, the sentries backed
away.  “What news?” she asked, almost breathlessly.

The messenger smiled gamely.  “Sent, I was, and with the
message whole in my mind, but in the coming,” he said, turning to the sheriff,
“I seen something as might be of interest to His Honorship, as well.”

“Speak,” ordered the sheriff when, a few moments later, the
audience chamber doors closed behind him.

“Eh, not so fast, there,” grinned the Bremondine.  He
settled himself into a chair and crossed his legs.  “Now, I done been paid, and
handsome well, too, to fetch along this message for Mistress Renda, aye, and to
take back a reply, but I ain’t seen no coin as to pay for my news, not yet.”

The sheriff’s expression darkened.

“Then again,” the Bremondine offered hastily, “I’d be just
as happy to take what you think it worth after I speak it.”

The sheriff slowly lowered himself into his own chair behind
the huge desk.

“Fine, then.”  The messenger cleared his throat and edged
forward in his seat.  “Fine.  First, the message for my lady.”  He closed his
eyes a moment and spoke in an expressionless voice.  “It’s not much.  ‘We’s
safe and sound, the boy and me, our mounts and what we could carry, by your
design.  The scoundrels burnt out the Hall, slaughtered the animals and took my
sword—the very one you gave me.  An the plague were none, I’d have got it back
twice by now.  Makes me wish I had kilt the old witch.’”

Lord Daerwin glanced at Renda but he said nothing.

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, the messenger
shrugged.  “Is all she had to say.”

Renda nodded with relief.  “By way of reply,” she began,
taking a parchment from her father’s desk.

“You could write it, you could,” interrupted the Bremondine,
“an you would keep it all confidence-like, you could, and I’d be all too happy
to set it in her hand, aye.  But I’m a memory messenger, me, and no message is
safer kept than in mine own head.”

She looked up at him briefly before she put the parchment
back in the drawer.  “Very well, then,” she said agreeably.  “Tell her—”

They heard a knock at the audience chamber door, and Sir
Matow stood outside, leaning painfully against the wall.  “Begging your pardon,
my lord,” he said, bowing his head, “but I see something at the northeastern
horizon—”

“Blast,” snarled the Bremondine.  “So much for my news.”

“Something?”  Lord Daerwin stood.

“Apologies, my lord.”  The sentry looked down.  “My eyes are
not as sharp...”

“Of motley, and spread along the roadway, is it?” asked the
Bremondine.

“No,” spoke Sir Matow uncertainly.  “I saw but a mere speck
of blue on the horizon ere I came to report, of a shade just darker than the
sky.  But sire, the villagers have seen it, as well, and they approach the
gates.”  He would have said more, but instead, he stood aside to let the
sheriff pass.

The villagers.  Maddock.  Renda looked at the Bremondine a
moment before asking, “You know what it is that brings the villagers, then?”

“Aye,” breathed the Bremondine dejectedly.  “The blue is a
Hadrian all bedecked and canopied and sitting astride a horse.  If you can
imagine it.  Behind him comes some ten more or so of varied hue and creed,
likewise of power and prestige, aye.” Renda’s eyes widened and she rushed after
her father.  She heard the messenger behind her telling the confused Matow,
“It’s your cardinal, lad, and a bloody decury more of his ilk, come to call at
Brannagh!”

For the first time since Chatka’s death, the remaining
villagers had come along the road to stand at the far side of the dry moat. 
Until now, they had been careful to hide their numbers since Maddock’s attack
on Graymonde Keep, to hide their meetings and their plotting against the House
of Brannagh.  Renda and her father, looking out at them from the castle gate,
wondered if even they could see how depleted in number they had been by the
plague.  But while they had been careful to hide their numbers from the
knights, so she and her father had not let it be known how many remained of his
knights.  Moments from now, they would see that even as they stood, they still
outnumbered those of the castle.  Maddock would see.

Of the two thousand common men and women of Brannagh who had
returned from the war, no more than a hundred remained, and of those, only a
few still had their families with them at roadside beyond the dry moat.  None
bore obvious weapons, and on the whole, they seemed far less concerned with the
castle itself than with those who peeked above the rise half a mile to the
east.

Her father raised his hand, and two of his knights drew up
the portcullis and lowered the drawbridge.  Once the gates were open, Renda led
nine fully armored knights out to escort the cardinal and his retinue within
the castle walls.  The other three, having just come in from the fields, were
at once taken with fits of coughing and had to be sent to the hospice.  Once
the last of the ten mounted knights had ridden out, the gate closed behind him,
leaving them alone to make their way past the surly clump of villagers to where
the assemblage of clerics rode toward them.

Renda rode ahead of the others with her hand resting on her
sword hilt, a warning if not an outright threat to the villagers and farmers
who had once fought under her banner.  Her gaze traveled over their sullen expressions. 
The only thing keeping them at bay was the promise of the approaching cardinal.

A rotting tomato thudded against her breastplate, and a gasp
traveled through both the knights and the villagers.  Murmurs of disbelief and
fear rose to her ears, and behind her, she heard the knights hands go to their
swords.  Her own hands were still at her reins, but she felt the villagers’
worried glances.  Maddock had thrown it at her, she was sure.  Maddock or
Botrain, the self-proclaimed leaders against Brannagh.  Nothing would suit them
better than to provoke an attack from the knights.

“What are you thinking, man?”  One of the farmers pushed
Botrain and almost knocked him into the dirt.  “You provoke the knights, and
we’ll not live to see our cure.”

“Remember Chatka’s words?”  Botrain’s voice boomed over the
crowd.  “See the red on her breast, and the blue, yonder?”  He spat.  “It’s as
Chatka foretold.  We’ll see no cure, mark my words.”

Renda frowned worriedly behind her visor and nudged Alandro
faster.  What was it Brada had said?  Prophecy, such a delicate thing.  Renda
brushed the disgusting red pulp from her armor as she rode, ignoring the angry
whispers around her.  Red on the Lioness’s breast, it was, but surely Chatka
had meant blood or treachery or some such, not something as insipid as a
tomato.

Had Botrain not thrown the tomato at her, had he not forced
that part of the prophecy, the blue of the cardinal’s robes might have gone
unmarked by the rest.  In any case, Botrain had fulfilled only part of Chatka’s
prophecy, the part under his control; the rest was under the sheriff’s control,
and he would simply prove their worries false.  Then, with the plague cured and
the prophecies made false, the witch’s hold over them might finally be broken,
and the sheriff could open negotiations with Maddock and Botrain.  All might
not be lost.

The Hadrian slowed his horse at Renda’s approach, and his
elaborate blue-tasseled canopy bobbled dangerously.  His pale eyes scanned her,
stopped on the tomato stain on her armor, looked over her retinue.  Satisfied,
he bowed his head.

“I am called Valmerous, Cardinal of Vilkadnazor the Unshod.”

“Lady Renda of Brannagh,” she said, squinting at him from
behind her visor.  Unlike other Hadrians she had seen, his eyes were not quite colorless;
they seemed to draw a tiny amount of color from his coarse blue cassock,
lending them a shade that other Hadrians might find unsettling.  To her
surprise, the cardinal’s feet were quite bare.  “Welcome to Castle Brannagh,
Eminence.”

“Renda of Brannagh herself,” he said with a gentle smile. 
His Syonese was surprisingly clean with only a mild clip on some of his words,
as if he’d spent quite a lot of time away from the Hodrache Range.  “She who
defeated Kadak?  An honor, my lady.”

Aye, Kadak and his Hadrian allies besides.  But she bowed
her head graciously, hiding her impatience at the formalities.  “The honor is
mine, Eminence.”  To her relief, she saw about him none of the bishop’s wispy
black veils, only a merry unwavering blue aura, the blessing of his god.  She
cast a quick glance along the road lined with angry villagers.  “But we must
hurry.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, clucking to his horse to move
forward.  “Lead on.”

“Eminence!”  A ragged woman stumbled along the road toward
the cardinal and reached up gratefully to clutch at the blue homespun of his
robes, trying to slow him, trying to lay but one finger of her hand upon him,
hoping to carry some of his strength away with her.

But the cardinal only smiled down at her and released
himself from her clutches.  “Patience,” he soothed, looking into the woman’s
wild eyes.  “We must to the castle first.”  He looked up at Renda, and his eyes
twinkled.  “I confess, I had thought us too late when we saw the burnt and
abandoned houses.  Faith, no one drew water from wells, no one drove animals
along the roads.  I despaired when I saw no children dodging and scrambling
about the streets.  I am surprised and grateful that so many remain, even
outside the castle walls.”