“In exchange for what?” Regent asked. “Peace?”
“You seek a cessation of hostilities on our border.” Neirin bowed his head. “Consider it done.”
“And the return of all contested land to the Heel.”
“Agreed.” There was no hesitation.
Regent’s composure slipped. He wore his surprise openly until he remembered himself. “Trade routes will be reopened,” he said. “As they were in my grandfather’s time.”
“It is my fondest hope,” Neirin replied. “Let us put aside our differences and come together, allies once more in the face of the perfidious West.”
Tom could almost see Regent’s thoughts: this was too good to be true. He didn’t believe Neirin. The elf was giving up too much too quickly. Tom saw his chance at Faerie slipping through his fingers.
“Forgive my boldness, Lord Neirin,” he said. “But these are times in which many words are said only to be followed by the knife.”
Neirin frowned. He was insulted, but swallowed it with a smile. His voice grew cool. “Indeed, Master Rymour. Should Regent agree to our terms, we shall declare it by written decree, sent back to the Angles immediately. And Regent can examine it himself, should he doubt our word.”
“Military support,” Regent said without warning. “If the West is as aggressive as you say, I want elfish troops to support my knights.”
Neirin finally hesitated. “If we are successful it will not come to that.”
“Nevertheless.”
Neirin met Regent’s gaze, the two rulers staring at each other as if trying to read each other’s thoughts. Neirin’s hands folded in his lap on a hard wooden chair, Regent stroking his beard on a hard golden one.
“Very well.” Neirin broke his stare. “Two hundred infantry.”
“Four.”
Neirin scowled now. “You ask much for one man.”
Regent said nothing.
“I wonder if you even mean to honour this agreement, Duke Regent,” he continued. His words came out slow and dangerous. “Perhaps you are merely exerting promises from me, seeking a temporary truce to strengthen your own position?”
“And perhaps you simply want to steal away one of my greatest assets,” Regent replied. “Only to renege on every promise you’ve made.”
“You dare!” It exploded from Neirin with a fury that made Tom flinch. The elf flew from his seat, knocking it over.
“The Angles have broken their word before, Lord Neirin.” Regent seemed unmoved by Neirin’s temper. “Or have you forgotten how my grandfather died?”
Tom had heard this story. When the land between the Heel and the Angles was first contested, Regent’s grandfather had travelled to the border to broker an agreement with Neirin’s father. But the elf hadn’t shown up and instead Regent’s grandfather had been attacked by a border patrol. He’d been shot and killed.
“Your grandfather was late,” Neirin said. “The Shield of the Eastern Angles has better things to do than to wait on a man’s convenience.”
It was all falling apart. This wasn’t going to work. Glastyn had wandered around to lean on the back of Emyr’s throne, watching the conversation dissolve into argument with great interest. Tom asked him for help with his eyes but Glastyn shook his head. “Do you really want the fay to get involved in mortal affairs?” he asked.
“Yes,” Tom said, without thinking. All eyes turned to him.
“Yes what?” Neirin demanded.
“Very well,” said Glastyn, a secret smile on his lips. He slipped from the room.
“Well, Tom?” Regent asked.
“Yes,” he repeated, buying time. “Yes, there have been wrongs on both sides. But we have an opportunity today to set things right. We should think of the future, not the past.”
Neirin wanted to argue. Tom could see it. His whole body was tensed, he was leant forward and his hands were like claws. He glared at Tom like he was the enemy. Then Siomi coughed and he changed. He took a breath and his body relaxed. He put his feet together, stood upright and bowed towards Tom.
“You are wise, Master Rymour,” he said. “We must not be driven by ghosts, but instead be directed by the promise of tomorrow.”
Tom pictured Elaine and Degor, his wife and son. They should have driven more of his decisions.
Neirin turned to Regent. “Let us be as brothers, Duke Regent,” he said. “Let us finish what our noble forebears tried to begin.”
Regent stood. It was a slow, deliberate gesture, mustering as much regality as possible. And, despite being more than a head shorter than the elf, the picture they made was one of king and subject.
“We shall have peace between us,” Regent said and extended his hand. Tom failed to hide his grin. He was going to Faerie. Neirin took Regent’s hand in his; someone must have shown him the gesture. They shook. Tom smelt jasmine and the earthy musk of Queen Maev.
“We shall have peace,” Regent repeated. “But Thomas Rymour stays with me.”
Chapter 4
“Beautiful countryside,” said Glastyn.
Tom grunted. They rode west along the Dolenlinn Road towards the border with the Marches. The late summer sun was warm and there was a breeze to keep the heat from becoming stifling. With a brilliant blue sky and not a cloud in sight, it should have been a lovely day. But the air was filled with the smell of horse sweat, manure, and the sound of forty knights and their attendants.
“Quite so, Sir Robert.” Sir Wrothsley of the Treasury smiled his oily smile towards what he thought was the Heel’s premier knight. It was, in fact, Glastyn in disguise. Poor Sir Robert was sleeping the sleep of the fay in a baggage cart somewhere whilst Glastyn rode on his horse and in his armour. “We defend a wonderful land.”
Tom held back a snort. It was often said that the Heel was named for its similarity with old bread: tough and chewy and with little to recommend it. Half of it was awash with the Braid, a river that split and twisted and twined and turned the land into half a marsh. Right now they rode through a dry patch, where the ground turned to heath and a little castle watched over the people as they tried their best to cultivate crops. Farming was tough in the Heel. Many had better luck poaching.
And Tom was stuck riding amongst knights and diplomats, none of whom paid him much heed, in the service of a duke who had kept him from Faerie. Oh, he had apologised to Tom. He had asked forgiveness. And Tom had danced around the truth enough that Regent was fooled. But all of the tiny trials of living in Cairnagan were bitter pills now.
“Indeed, good sir.” Glastyn was in his element, playing up to the idea of the gallant knight. Tom couldn’t believe these little lords didn’t recognise an imposter; Glastyn’s performance bordered on pantomime. “Seeing this land and these good people, we can see why so many are ready to shed their blood to protect it.”
“And you, Robert?” Sir Oliver, lord of the war office and chief amongst Regent’s knights. He was gruff and shrewd and had no time for the political games of the rest of the Privy Council. He was Tom’s favourite, though the man had little time for Tom himself.
“We would be first to meet any man who threatened our home.”
“You plan to break the habit of a lifetime?”
Glastyn turned to the barb. Tom couldn’t see his expression under the visor, but he could picture his wild grin. “Perhaps you will join us? How long has it been since you lead the charge?”
Oliver scowled. “There is more to war than riding at the enemy.”
“Was a soldier ever defeated by paper?”
“I have seen plenty of soldiers in my duties, Robert.” Sir Tillsdowne, keeper of Regent’s Justice. Considering the number of death warrants he signed, he was the mildest man Tom had ever met. “It was my quill decided their fate.”
Glastyn chuckled. “Have you ever heard the story of The Last Knight of Tir?”
The Privy Council members, save Tom, all made noises of assent.
“What of it?” Sir Wrothsley, knight in name only, riding in h
is rich robes and covered with powders and fragrances. Paying no mind to the peasant children running alongside them, cheering and waving at their parade. They pointed out marvels to each other and their parents. Tom knew they’d name each knight by his coats of arms with the memory for such things only children have. They were dirty and they wore rough hemps and their hands had calluses already. How could Wrothsley sit there in his finery and ignore them?
Glastyn began to spin the tale for them. Tom didn’t listen. He’d heard it before. He knew the point Glastyn was trying to make. Instead he looked ahead, past Regent where he rode surrounded by pennants and flags, to the road ahead.
Neirin had blustered when Regent refused to hand over Tom. He had cursed. He had cajoled. He had made promises, promises to cede more land to the Heel. He had promised to offer relatives as wards, diplomatic hostages for Regent should the Angles renege on the deal. He had promised new trade routes, exclusive benefits and boons for the Angles’ new ally. And Regent had thanked him and offered his own terms. Cairnagan had been the last stronghold of the house of Emyr, he said, and it held many documents from that time. Neirin was free to peruse them at his leisure. One of them would hold the key to the door to Faerie.
But Tom had been digging through that library for months. How much more luck would Neirin have? And the elf would have little patience with trawling through more paper to get what he wanted. Tom had known that as soon as Regent suggested it. Neirin had nodded his way through the rest of the audience, leaving much of the talking to Siomi. And then, when they had retired for the night and Tom lay in his bed, despairing of ever seeing Faerie again, Katharine had knocked on his door and told him the plan.
Which was why Glastyn had stolen Robert’s armour. “What brings you here, Last Knight of Tir, and where are all your brothers?” The fay almost sang the refrain of the old tale, drawing eyes towards him. He was out of character and, while many of the younger and greener knights rode in their armour, they suffered for it. Wiser veterans rode in light, comfortable clothing. So many must be wondering why Robert was dressed head to toe in shining plate, with even his visor down.
“A terrible place lain under all Tir, where a king could be found wrapped up on his bier. So whisp’ring a prayer and lifting the mound, the Last Knight of Tir clambered into the ground.”
It was an antagonistic tale to tell. While each Regent of the Heel continued to knight its soldiers, the rest of Tir had long ago decided that knights belonged to an age passed. There were no more real knights, they said, and the Heel was playing at knighthood like children.
Up ahead Tom could see another branch of the Braid, crossed by a stone bridge. And just beyond this bridge Tom could see the forest.
“You’re a braver man than we, Thomas Rymour,” Glastyn had said after Katharine had told him the plan. “Those men will be very well-armed.”
“You’re not much comfort, Glastyn,” he replied.
“We never claimed to be.”
“You might try it,” he said. “You might even try helping me.”
“Who said we won’t?”
“Please don’t talk to them while I’m here,” Katharine had said and he had ignored Glastyn until she had left.
“What if they don’t stop?” he had asked. “What if Regent is too eager to speak to King Idris? What if he fears the Westerners will not wait?”
He watched Regent ride. Relaxed, waving to the people. As if he was riding through his private grounds. He didn’t seem to see the soldiers between the people and himself, nor the scowls on some peasants’ faces. But he was a consummate actor. He could look furious on the outside but be amused on the inside. Look bored but be attentive. Calm but worried.
“The blackest of knights, the enemy of all, sat at the head of a bone-ridden hall.”
Tom was surrounded by Council members, near the head of the column. He couldn’t just ride off. If they didn’t stop there was nothing he could do. Neirin would leave him there. Glastyn would not help him. He would be trapped in Regent’s court until he was an unnoticed old man, spewing a foresight to anyone who still cared to listen. As invisible as a fay. A prisoner of mortals.
“We know why you are here, Last Knight of Tir, for we are all your brothers.”
“Peace, Sir Robert.” Sir Oliver bit out his words from behind clenched teeth.
“Yes, rest a while, good Robert,” Tillsdowne agreed.
Wrothsley’s face was a mask. But he was shrewd. He could sense the tensions in the Council. “Perhaps you should wet your throat, Robert?” he said, offering a wineskin. “Rest your voice, so you may finish your story later with the same gusto as you began.”
“You are too kind, good sir,” Glastyn said to Wrothsley. Then to Oliver he said, “Apologies if our humble voice has offended your ears.” And to Tillsdowne, “Your offer of rest is appreciated.”
Where Tom floundered amongst protocol, Glastyn swam like a fish. He knew exactly who needed addressing first according to the unspoken hierarchy amongst equals. Tom felt sick. He would never understand that. He couldn’t stay here.
They crossed the bridge. Tom felt his heart begin to pound against his chest and he noticed his hands were shaking. He gripped the reins tighter. Regent wouldn’t stop. He knew it. He would never return to Faerie. He would never see Maev again. He had to do something. But what could he do? He was just Thomas Rymour.
“Halt!” The call was like sweet nectar. Holding in a laugh was a feat of strength worthy of Cei himself.
“What goes on?” Oliver was in a foul mood now.
Everyone was peering ahead to see what had stopped them. Tom didn’t look. He knew what it was. Instead he cast about for the sign. There were trees on either side, cut back from the road so as to offer some warning should travellers be attacked by bandits. He peered at the trees. Was his eyesight getting worse?
No. There it was. A tree with a white mark on the trunk. He would excuse himself. If challenged he would say ‘this is a good opportunity to relieve oneself’. He would walk into the trees. Katharine would be waiting. She would hide them. She would lead them through the forest and they would meet with Neirin. That was the plan.
Except how could they hope to elude forty knights? They would ride him down. Skewer him on a lance, slice open his belly or simply cut off his head. So many of the knights were young and hot-headed. They believed in forgiveness rather than permission. Getting off his horse would be suicide. He may as well walk straight to the Isles of the Dead.
When had he become so cowardly? Once upon a time he’d thought himself invincible. That Tom would already be in the forest. Now he quivered like a frightened old man. He hadn’t been scared of death then. Why should he be now? He should dismount, if not to see Maev, if not to find peace, than to try and find a little of that old courage inside himself.
He didn’t get off the horse.
“We wonder what’s happening ahead?” Glastyn said. He stretched in the saddle. “Still, a good opportunity to relieve oneself, eh, Tom?”
Eyes turned to him. He forgot his voice. Once lies had flowed from his tongue like sweet honey. Now his mouth filled with spit and his stomach threatened to reject his breakfast. Why couldn’t he pull himself together?
Because one well-phrased question would catch him out. One question he couldn’t avoid and he’d have to confess to everything.
Tom opened his mouth to agree. No, not agree. He would say he’d been thinking the same thing. But he hadn’t been, so he couldn’t. Nor could he say he felt the same way; it was not a good idea if anyone else relieved themselves as they might see him hide. What should he say? Nothing. Say nothing. Silence is an ally. He climbed out of the saddle, movements shaky and uncertain.
“Thomas Rymour!”
They knew. He’d been found out.
“Attend the duke, Thomas Rymour!”
He should run. But then they would chase him. And then they’d kill him. He sighed and walked up the column. The road was smooth and warm but his feet
were cold. The soldiers frowned down at him. He tried not to meet their gaze.
“Your Grace?”
Regent was still mounted, looking down at the road ahead. Tom could see he was troubled. The tension in his shoulders. The tightening around the eyes. He looked down at Tom and frowned.
“Why are you dismounted?”
He forced a smile. It was too big. “A halt is a good time to relieve oneself, Your Grace.”
Regent’s eyes narrowed. “And is that what you need to do?”
Panic flooded his senses for a moment but Tom kept his expression under control. Careful. Careful. “I am not used to long travel on horseback, Your Grace.” He shifted as if in discomfort. “I haven’t the stamina these days.” Before Regent could press the question, he asked, “What can I do for Your Grace?”
Regent looked back to the road. “Look at this.”
Tom didn’t need to look. He’d suggested it. But he looked, for appearances. A man, partly armoured, lay sprawled in the road. Paper was attached to his surcoat. It would be a notice of taxation, over which was written ‘no farther’. The coat of arms would identify the man as the local knight, though the body would belong to a peasant, robbed from his grave. Sick and ghoulish but better than killing someone. The decay had eaten at his face already to keep up the ruse.
Tom didn’t have to pretend to gag.
“My land is sickening, Tom. It grows worse.”
“I cannot disagree, Your Grace.” Tom looked back at Regent and swallowed.
“What do you see?” he asked. He kept his eyes on the dead man. “I need to know what you see.”
The man was lost. He was lonely. He didn’t know what to do. And he was asking for help. Suddenly Tom felt like a coward, a thief, like he was stealing away something Regent sorely needed. This was a terrible thing he did. And a selfish thing, too. Neirin had told him it was necessary, that it was all to save Tir, to save the Heel. And Tom had nodded along. But he was doing this for himself. He was abandoning Regent to make himself happy.
The Realm Rift Saga Box Set Page 5
