Sword of Hemlock (Lords of Syon Saga Book 1) (4 page)

Rjeinar’s priests held that verinara was a holy poison; it
would kill only the guilty one.  But Gikka did not trust superstition.  In open
air, the juice went stale within two days, about the time it took for the leaf
to yellow—a Hadrian would pin the leaf to his cloak that he might have his
revenge before it faded—but during those two days, no one, guilty or innocent,
could survive the poison without a draft of anoverinara.  Even then, he would
spend many days abed praying for a merciful death while the poison burned away
the lining of his gut.  Without the ano or having taken it too late, a man
would bleed away into his belly.

To her mind, verinara was too easy a death for these
knights.

“Ever the practical one,” sighed the knight as she watched
Gikka sheath her freshly poisoned daggers.  Then, with a sad smile, Renda
clapped her hand at her squire’s shoulder.  “Come,” she said.  “We must get her
back to the castle.”

*          *          *

At a cry from the watch at the gatehouse, everyone had come
running out to the castle gate to cheer Renda and Gikka and especially little
Pegrine on their return home.  All the well-wishers stood clumped in a tight
wad just inside the gates behind Lord Daerwin and Lady Glynnis, bobbing their
heads round one another to be the first to see the lanterns through the
darkness.

Both of the lanterns the women had taken with them had
nearly burned out, so the horses were over the bridge and at the castle wall
before anyone could see them clearly.  At first, those of the house saw only a
single riderless horse, which the grooms recognized presently as Alandro, with
a peculiar burden strapped across the saddle.  Renda walked beside her horse,
holding his rein more for her own comfort than to lead him back to the castle,
and as she drew him into the torchlight, the household’s cheer became a gasp of
shock.

To Renda’s utter sorrow, she and Gikka had been unable to
create any illusion of peaceful repose for Pegrine’s body.  They had reached
her far too late to be able to bend her limbs into a restful pose; her
stiffened arms and legs were obscenely splayed and bent out from her body as if
she still lay upon the hideous altar.  As further insult to her dignity, they
had had to tie her over the saddle on her back, with her head held over
Alandro’s flank and her feet stiffly poised above each of his shoulders.  Renda
had covered the body with her mantle before she tied it down with Gikka’s rope,
and now, coming into the light, she saw that the brilliant Brannagh coat of
arms had sunk down into the open hollow of the child’s body and was clotted
black and red with blood.

Behind Renda, Gikka dismounted behind Alandro, emerging
seemingly from the shadows themselves, and began untying Pegrine’s body from
the saddle.  As the women worked, the knights and servants who had gathered
slowly retreated from their helplessness at the horrible scene, leaving only
those oldest and best trusted to attend the family’s sorrow.

Renda lay the tiny cloak-covered body at her father’s feet
and watched the last light of hope drain from his gray eyes.  He only stared
down at the horribly twisted bundle that had once been his granddaughter, the
sole child of his dead son.

“Pegrine,” whispered Lady Glynnis, kneeling beside the tiny
body and touching her fingertips to the little girl’s shrouded face.  Renda
knelt beside her mother and gently drew her hand away, but not soon enough. 
The flesh beneath the cloak was hard and cold and contorted into a cry of
agony, and at the touch of it, Renda watched her mother’s eyes widen with
horror.  “She knew such pain and fear.  Ah, my poor darling,” the woman
breathed.  Her hand fell away from the cloak.

“Aye,” answered Renda simply.

But Lady Glynnis seemed not to hear.  She stood, and Renda
watched her mother look out over the fields, not toward the place where Pegrine
died, but south, toward that battleground where the sheriff and his knights had
held off an attack four years ago.  To the place where her son, Roquandor, had
fallen.  Now the last of him was gone, as well.  She collapsed against her
daughter in painful, graceless sobs.

At a wave of Renda’s hand, two serving women wiped away
their tears to lead Her Ladyship back into the castle.  In hushed tones, Renda
suggested that they lead her into the new chapel in the east wing where she
might take comfort from prayer, but Lady Glynnis said she would rather go to
her own chambers to rest.  Her tone was strangely calm, and Renda saw a worried
glance pass between the two maidservants. They would not leave Her Ladyship
alone tonight. 

From just inside the castle door where her mother passed
with the servants, Renda thought she could see the pale light of Nara’s habit. 
The nun had stayed back, unsure whether she would be welcome at Pegrine’s
homecoming.  Now she came forward trembling, wringing her hands, looking from
one knight’s face to another as she passed, looking for some hope in any of
their eyes, until at last she stood beside the sheriff and his daughter.

Suddenly, she shrieked. But the scream she uttered was less
of anguish than of pure terror, and the old nun stumbled backward, away from
the body.  Her mouth moved in a babble of prayers and her hands worked
frantically until she stood with her back against the castle wall, flattened as
if she would press her way right through it. 

Renda stepped back, trying to understand.

Nara was warding against some evil presence.  She was
calling upon B’radik’s most powerful protections, and not for herself—for the
whole of Castle Brannagh.  But why? 

Renda looked back, seeing the still form of her niece on the
ground, the equally unmoving forms of her father and Gikka, both of whom stood
watching Nara in alarm.  Certainly the cold darkness of the clearing had
lingered on Renda’s soul during the journey back to the castle, but she did not
feel that now except as a memory.  What did Nara see here? 

Then Renda saw something else that frightened her more than
any evil Nara might see:  B’radik was not answering the nun’s pleas.

“Nara?”  Renda took a step toward her, but at the sound of
her voice, Nara only grew more desperate.  She turned, screaming in terror, and
clawed at the castle wall until her fingers left streaks of blood.  A few
moments later, her energy spent, she dropped to the ground.  By the time Renda
reached her side, the glow of the nun’s habit had faded until it was nearly
gone. 

“You,” shouted Gikka to the two stablemen who had come to
take the horses.  “Run, fetch a priest from the temple for Nara, and one of
power, mind.  Quick, quick!  Take our horses, go!”  At that, the two men leaped
into the saddles and kicked the horses into a full gallop toward the temple.

Renda lifted Nara and carried her just inside the castle
doors, followed by a pair of the sheriff’s knights.  At once, the men gave up
their fur cloaks, one that Nara might lie upon it, the other to cover the old
woman and keep her warm.  She still breathed, though barely, and her eyes were
rolling wildly under half-opened lids.

Renda held Nara’s cold hand to warm it in her own, and she
brushed her other hand over the woman’s bare scalp, fingering the thin even
veil of white hair that spilled down from just above Nara’s ears.  The tips of
Nara’s fingers had been shredded and deeply bruised against the stone, and
thick dark blood oozed and welled.  Renda shut her eyes and whispered prayers
for Nara and for Pegrine, shutting out the haunting images of the little girl’s
face and the slimy black ribbons of blood that they had had to pull from her in
the clearing.

“B’radik...”  Nara’s lips were dry, and her voice was faint. 
“Darkness.  No light...”

“Hush, Nara,” soothed the knight.  “All will be well.”

“Darkness rises and smothers light, ill-fed on dragon’s
blood...”

Renda frowned and stroked Nara’s hair gently.  “Dragon’s
blood,” she repeated softly.  The dragon was the emblem of the House of
Damerien.  She could only mean Damerien blood, Brannagh blood, her own.  Renda
swallowed hard.  Pegrine’s blood.  Dear B’radik, what had happened to Pegrine? 
What did Nara see?

“Darkness, oh, darkness upon us!  The prophecy...”

“Prophecy?”  Renda looked down at the nun’s face.  “What
prophecy?” 

But upon having uttered that single word, Nara fell
unconscious beneath the knight’s hand, as if someone would not let her answer.

Some time later, Renda looked up to see two priests from the
hospice, both young and not yet glowing with all the power of B’radik, running
through the doorway to Nara’s side.  Renda’s heart sank.  Surely if Nara could
not command the power of B’radik, these two would fail.  But as they prayed and
dripped a few drops of healing oil onto Nara’s lips, the glow of her habit
seemed to brighten just a little—an encouraging sign.  Renda stood and backed
away, letting the two priests work.

“Renda.”  The voice was Gikka’s, coming from just outside
the door.  When Renda joined her, they walked outside toward where their
lathered horses, just returned from the hospice, stood waiting.

Renda looked toward her father and paused.  Left to himself,
the sheriff had nothing to take his thoughts from the dark shape on the ground
before him.  After a time, he breathed out, and his body shuddered slightly,
ever so slightly. 

Gikka followed Renda’s gaze.  “He’s older by ten years this
hour, weak and weary with his grief.”

Her heart ached for him, ached for his anguish, but she
could not allow herself to share in it.   She had purged the pain from her
heart, at least for now.  As she had learned from the war, mourning the dead
could wait.

“Has he any insight?”

Her squire nodded, collecting her thoughts.  “Two Wirthing
knights come calling yesterday asking to stay the tenday.”

Renda rubbed her eyes.  “Yes, I saw them, but I cannot see
how…”

“Hear me,” Gikka said, lowering her voice though no one was
nearby.  “When Matow went to ask their help in the search, they were gone.  No
leave taken, yet of horses, of clothing, of armor, nothing remains of them. 
The boot prints I saw in the glade…It could only be these very men.”

Renda thought a moment, then shook her head.  “Knights,
especially Wirthing knights, allied to Brannagh for a thousand years, would
never do such a thing.”

“Not actual knights, Renda.  Thieves and worse.  Two dead
men Jadin found at the river, as would be the real Wirthing knights.  These
others come posing in Wirthing colors, no doubt with other intention, but they
see the child, lead her away and…”

It still made no sense.  What brigand would trouble himself
to attack Wirthing’s knights, disguise himself to make entry at Brannagh, then
take and kill a highborn child when there was surely more profit in ransom?

Gikka seemed to follow her thought.  “Killing her that way,
they have to know we’d come after, so there’s more behind this than simple
coin. Something more remains to be found, something touching on why she died
that way.  Something we don’t know.”  She looked out at the dark road.  “But
we’ll not find it here.”

“No,” Renda breathed.  She moved toward Alandro.

“Something else you should know,” Gikka said, catching her
arm.  “Your father…Renda, I’ve not seen him so dark and cold, not even when
Roquandor fell, begging your pardon.”

“Aye, and with good reason,” Renda looked down at where
Gikka held her arm. 

“He made clear to me that he does not want them brought back
to his dungeons for trial.”

Renda’s gaze met hers.

“No room for knightish nonsense and justice in this.  It will
be an ugly business, not worthy to stain your honor by.”  When she saw that
Renda understood, she released her arm and made her own way toward Zinion. 
“You’ve no need to go; I can see to these myself.”  She nodded toward the sad
progression of knights and servants that followed Pegrine’s tiny makeshift bier
into the castle behind the sheriff.  “The family’ll be expecting you to sit the
vigil.”

Renda smiled grimly.  “I split the verinara leaf, Gikka. 
You know my mind.”  She swung herself up into her saddle and nodded once to her
father. “My duty to Pegrine’s spirit is greater than my duty to her flesh.  And
I cannot simply sit.  If the House of Brannagh needs vengeance, we should have
courage enough to see to it ourselves.”  She sighed, patting her horse’s neck. 
“Come, we lose the night.  Are you sure you know where to find them?”

Farras

T
he
younger one stood unsteadily against the table and scrutinized her face, the
curves of her slight figure, just as he had when he approached her at the bar.  She
had planned what he would see, what would draw him to her: sun-darkened olive
skin, dark brown hair, a familiar something about her face.  To his eye, she
was one more comely Bremondine wench, his for the taking.  With her tunic
unlaced a bit as it was, she had made sure his eye looked no further than that.

She had had little time to prepare, coming straight from the
castle, and the illusion was less than perfect.  Had he been any less befuddled
with drink he would have noticed that the cloth of that fetchingly unlaced
riding tunic was too fine, too costly for a tavern whore, or that she had
unusually long nails on the little fingers of both hands.  Likewise, it should
have struck him odd that she had not taken off her cloak indoors on such a warm
night.

“Gikka, did you say?”  He gave her a dull smile.  “An
unusual name.  Bremondine, is it?”

“Aye,” she murmured, watching him.  She kept her hand light
over the concealed dagger at her hip, ready to fly, but no.  His eyes blinked
blearily.  She saw no light of recognition in them, no guilt, no fear.  The
name of the Brannagh squire made absolutely no impression on him.  He was
indeed drunk or simply ignorant.

“Sir Finnig of—,” he grinned at her before he drew out the
chair beside him.  His mind was as transparent to her as if he spoke aloud—it
was best any half Bremondine bastard he might sire tonight know as little of
him as possible.  “Just call me Finnig.” he slurred, patting the seat.  With a
demure smile, she took a chair opposite him rather than the one he offered.  It
put her back to a wall where she could watch the door behind the two men.  Let
them read the gesture as they may; she would not let herself be trapped behind
the table.  She turned her chair out at a messy angle to the corner, an angle the
drunken knights would not notice but enough to leave her free to move clear.

“Gikka,” he said again.  “I know that name.”  He turned to
his companion and almost knocked himself off balance.  Somehow in the same
motion he managed to drop himself into his own chair.  “I say, Bernold,” he
called loudly, “do I know the name Gikka?”

But the other knight only sighed in exasperation and drank
his ale, as if he had performed his part in this show many times before.  “How
should I know?”  He raised the mug in a grumpy salute to the woman before he
turned his attention back to his drink.

Curious.  Bloody odd, in fact.  For murderous guilty men,
they seemed quite at their ease.

The trail leaving the glade had gone cold already, and Gikka
had seen no point in taking up the search there.  She supposed that the
villains had just been paid for a difficult job, and likely they would want to
celebrate.  So the women had ridden at all speed along the western road
straight toward Farras, the only city within a day’s ride of Brannagh. 

They had to find Pegrine’s killers tonight.  Tomorrow, an
the brutes had a brain between them, the “knights” would vanish and two more
common men would leave the Farras gate than came in the day before.  But
tonight, Gikka wagered, they’d not pass up a last chance to lodge and board
like kings.

Just outside Farras, she and Renda had seen the Wirthing
arms on two horses’ bridles at a roadside inn, and it seemed likely that they
belonged to the men who had taken Pegrine, being as this inn was the nearest to
Brannagh lands.  But with Wirthing’s lands not too far to the south, his
knights were a common sight in Farras, especially during the festivals of the
Gathering.  Gikka had to be certain.

She had gone into the tavern alone.  If they were real Wirthing
knights and not the ones the women sought, they would certainly remember
fighting beside the Knights of Brannagh and possibly even under Lady Renda’s
command during the war, and she would find herself embroiled in the demands of
her station and stayed from her purpose, while Gikka could quietly take her
leave, unseen, unnoticed, and no harm done, either to them or to the thousand
year alliance between Wirthing and Brannagh. 

But if these men had indeed been at Brannagh, if they had
been the ones to take Pegrine…once she was sure, she and Renda would put
Pegrine’s spirit to rest.

The trouble was, she was not sure.  And the longer she sat
with these two men, the less sure she became.  Their Wirthing doublets fit
surprisingly well for bandits who had killed a random pair of knights afield,
and she couldn’t see, much less smell, any blood about them.  Besides that,
even though they were drunk, she had heard no slip in their cultured Wirthing
accents, nor had she seen the slightest misstep in their manners.  She, who had
spent years living among knights in castle and in battle, could not tell these
men from real knights.  If they did not serve the Earl of Wirthing, they were
good impostors.  Very good.

“No, I’m quite certain of it, Bernold.  The name Gikka rings
familiar,” Finnig said, shaking his head.  “Though I would certainly remember a
face as lovely as this,” he added with a leer.

The tavernkeeper had come to mop the spilt ale from their
table, overhearing the whole exchange.  He laughed in disbelief, but before he
could open his mouth Gikka dropped a coin into his apron pocket with a tangible
thunk.  He breathed out slowly, his fingers moving slyly over the engraving of
the coin.  A fiver.  That was enough money to see him through the rest of his
life if he was careful.  He smiled and put a hand on the younger knight’s
shoulder.

“Course you knows the name Gikka.  Lads, there’s no soul on
Syon what lives and breathes as hasn’t heard of Gikka.” 

“Gikka.”  Bernold looked at him dully.  “I do know that name...”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she said nothing. He had no
reason to betray her.  He had to know he’d never survive it.  Her gaze touched
the door, the window above the spot where Renda listened outside, the two
drunken knights.  She decided she could afford to hear a bit before she killed
him.

The tavernkeeper’s eyes sparkled, and he pushed back the
sleeve of his tunic, winking at Gikka.  “Aye, you do indeed, and no one in
Farras knows more about her than…heh heh…your humble servant.  Gikka, well, she’s
sheer legend, her.”  He rocked back on his heels and grinned, counting off the
famous bits of her life on his fingers like a shopping list.  “…robbed half the
merchantmen in Brannford ere she was grown, hired out to any as could pay.”

“Hired out?”  Bernold leered suggestively.

“Aye, as assassin and spy.”

“And you know this?”

The tavernman nodded.  “All Syon knows it.  I’m surprised
you do not.”

“Absurd,” Finnig declared. “The best spy is the one no one
knows.” 

Gikka nodded agreement.  “It does sound a bit farfetched.”

“And that is twice true for assassins,” Finnig spoke over
her, crossing his arms smugly.  “Barkeep, if everyone knows who she is and what
she does, why would anyone just sit and wait to be killed? Why would they even
let her come near?”

The tavernman blinked at the two knights and at Gikka.
“Exactly.”  Bernold nodded.  “She may have been a great assassin once, but she
cannot be so now, not with such infamy following her all over Syon.”

“And why was she never captured or punished?” He waved
dismissively. “This story is rubbish.”

“Oh, but she was captured. Once.  She spent some time in
Kadak’s prison.  After she escaped—”

“Escaped Kadak’s prison?”  Finnig laughed.  “First an
assassin, and now she’s escaped Kadak’s own prison.  Ah, but stories do grow.”

“I suppose she willed Kadak to find her,” chuckled Bernold.

“—escaped, as I say.”  The tavernman shook a finger at him. 
“No prison stands as can hold Gikka, lad.  Aye, she escaped, only to turn right
back ‘round and go in again to help the sheriff’s knights as was captured
escape.  So twice it is she escaped.”

“The Sheriff of Brannagh.” Bernold stroked his chin.

“Aye, but Lady Renda, it was, what sent her in after them,
and Lady Renda what she serves to this day.  Not counting as she brought the
late Duke Brada out besides, at war’s end.  So three times in and out of
Kadak’s prison, it is.  Three!”

Finnig grinned.  “But Duke Brada died.  She did not save him
after all.”

“Oh, but she did.  Our duke lived long enough to see the
war’s end and victory at Brannagh hands.  A good death, indeed.”

“Brannagh, Brannagh,” grumbled Bernold.

The tavernman paused, and Gikka watched a worried wrinkle
cross his brow before he smiled again and continued his story.  “Calls herself
Squire, now, does Gikka, both of the Graymonde lands and mines she came to own
and in service to Brannagh.”  He cast a quick, self-conscious glance at the
woman.

“Graymonde.  That’s it, Bernold, Gikka of Graymonde.” 
Finnig laughed loudly, lifting his mug.  “The war hero.  Yes, squire to Renda
of Brannagh, no less; there’s irony for you.”

Irony?  Gikka looked up at him and watched him empty the
mug.  She dared not ask what he meant, though the question sat on the edge of
her lips, begging to prove their guilt.  But no whore would ask.  She’d played
the part often enough, smiled and cooed countless marks into the alleyways and
inns of Brannford, and she’d learned her role well.  She drew a deep breath. 
Listen, Gikka.  Watch.  Learn.

“...consorts with a sorcerer, and a nasty one, at that.  Looks
the very picture of a mother’s son but icy shrewd behind those blue eyes of
his.  Dith the Impenitent.”

She could not resist.  “I thought they called him the
Merciless.”

The barkeep laughed.  “Both, says I, and worse.  Burnt a
whole ship right on the waterways, and for what?  To kill a few graetna dogs,
or so I heard.”  He mopped the table again.  “Oh, on stories of that one alone,
I could keep you a tenday.  Under threat of death from Rjeinar, the Hadrian god
of vengeance, so they say, for that wicked business at Kadak’s stronghold—sure
you heard about that, gents?”

“No,” Finnig said, “in truth, from where we were, we only
saw the Hadrians fleeing in a panic.”

“Is what we all saw.  And run they did!  Oh, but I never
seen Hadrians run so fast in all my days, like to break down the very walls,
screaming, ‘Rjeinar!  Rjeinar is upon us!’”  The man wiped his tears of
laughter away with his apron.  “That’s him.  Saucy as you please.  Course,” he
gestured roundly, “he’s away now, gone north to study with some master, or so
they say.”  He winked.  “Gray magic at best, if you take my meaning.  Comes
away from that, and you’ll be glad he’s got his loyalties to the House of
Brannagh.”

“Quite.” Finnig’s tone was oddly terse.

“But barkeep,” broke in Bernold.  “What does this Gikka of
Graymonde look like?”  He looked at the woman and grinned.  “I mean, this could
be she, and how are we to know?”

“Oh, Bernold.”  Finnig laughed and reached an arm around her
possessively.  “You need only look at her to see.  She’s no killer.”

The barman glanced up at the ceiling above their heads as if
trying to remember, but Gikka thought he might be putting back a grin. 
“Bremondine, is our Gikka, maybe even that witchy Verdura blood from up
north.”  He ignored the blaze of contempt that flared in the woman’s black
eyes.  “Dark of hair and eye, like this one.  Handsome trim figure, mannish
loose hair.  Just like this one.”  He watched the quick look of worry cross the
knights’ faces and the glare from Gikka. At that, the innkeeper straightened,
laughed and clapped her on the back with a wink at the two knights.   “Oh, but
I’m scaring you gents!”  He laughed.  “Oh, but look at those wide eyes!  I had
you lads, didn’t I?  Fear me not, the real Gikka’s a good bit older, to my
mind, and with none so sweet a face.  Nah, Gikka, that’s a common name with
these Bremondines, these days, especially with those of—” he looked at her
sideways as he moved back to the empty bar, “—her kind.  Good for business,
y’understand, to play the part, because what man on Syon doesn’t dream of…” and
the rest was lost to muttering.

“There, you see?”  Finnig raised his pint and put his hand
over Gikka’s arm.  “Just a regular whore, Bernold.  But it’s as well you’re not
Gikka of Graymonde,” he slurred, stifling a belch.  “If you were,” he laughed,
“we two would be dead by now.”

Her heart quickened but she willed herself to stay calm
under his touch.  “Oh, I think not,” she purred.   Below the table, she flexed
her other hand over the hilt of her dagger.  Not just yet.  “What grand scheme
of yours would draw her eye?  Sure such a one as she has bigger foes than you.”

“Oh, my darling,” grinned Bernold malevolently.  “You’ve no
idea what company you keep tonight.”  He drew himself up and leaned toward her,
quieting his voice.  “We, that is, we two alone, defeated the Knights of
Brannagh.”

“Defeated the knights?”  Idle boast, perhaps. Even sheer
lies.  Patience, she told herself, patience.  She had to be sure.  “What,” she
asked, looking from one to the other, “in tournament?  Sure not in battle. The
land is at peace.”

“Nay, not in battle, pretty one.”  Finnig combed his fingers
affectionately through her hair.  “We duped that Brannagh sheriff and took his
very granddaughter right from her nursery and sold her, is what, and for an
embarrassingly high price, at that.”  He laughed, running his fingers along the
neckline of her tunic.  “Enough to keep you in silk gowns and ribbons your
whole long life, my dear.”

Sold her.  Gikka swallowed hard, fighting back her rage. 
She managed a quizzical smile, one bordering on admiration, even while bile
rose in her throat.  Now would come the meat of it.  “But who—”

“Damnable Brannagh knights,” spat Bernold darkly, and
suddenly all his humor was gone.  “They stole victories that should have been
ours.  They rescued the villages on the earl’s lands without so much as a
salute to our own knights.”  He stared into his ale.  “To hear Wirthing
villages praising the name of Brannagh...”