Larantyne
Page 5
*Yes,* came the simple, unadorned reply. *And now, My little lamb, I'm going to leave you to meditate undisturbed. Just don't forget, you belong to Me, and you exist exactly as I made you. Don't beat yourself up over not pleasing My Warrior self. Just keep Me happy, and all will be well.*
The Mother laughed, then departed. Kirel's head spun a bit. What an experience! He'd known all his life his mother's goddess was real in a way other people's deities just plain weren't, but having an actual goddess speak in his head took that nebulous knowledge into a whole new realm of certainty. And the Mother needed his help? If he remembered correctly, She'd said just exactly that. Shocking. Simply shocking.
He glanced around the chapel, but no benches magically materialized. So he shrugged and sat cross-legged on the floor.
The firm words of Awenn, coming so close on the heels of General Trise's assessment of Kirel's abilities, put a large crack in his resistance. For some reason, he'd had an easier time accepting that it was perfectly normal to feel attraction for Sylvan than believing that fear was normal. Of course, he'd really, really wanted that to be true, and what kind of moron wanted to be afraid? Maybe it was because he'd been so young when his parents died. He couldn't remember seeing either one of them ever afraid of anything at all. Well, except for the time he'd been really young, and a horse spooked and ran away with him. Then he'd seen a look of pure terror on his mother's face, right before she'd set heels to her own horse and caught up with him. But he'd just always assumed nothing scared his parents, so nothing should scare him.
Hmm. Maybe that was a pretty dumb demand to make of oneself, after all. Just last week that he'd told Garret it was okay to be afraid of falling off, as long as he didn't let the fear rule him. Maybe he should listen to his own advice. It sounded pretty much like what the Mother said to him moments ago, and echoed the General as well.
Kirel gave himself a shake and rose to return to the Peacock Suite, hoping Sylvan would be back by the time he got there.
He wasn't, of course. Kirel shrugged off his disappointment and found his way into the empty bed. The Bard must have accepted some kind of engagement tonight. Perhaps it was even that masquerade party Kirell still felt no desire to attend. Whatever, he'd come back at some point, and life would be better then.
Kurill
Morning brought no sign of Sylvan. Kirel rang for his breakfast and started dressing by the light of an elemental lamp, worrying. Sylvan never stayed away all night. What could have happened? Maybe he'd fallen ill, spent the night in the infirmary?
Right about the time Kirel decided the horses could wait and he'd have to go searching for his lover, his breakfast arrived, carried by the missing Bard.
"Sylvan! Where have you been?" Kirel took the tray, noting with concern how exhausted the Bard looked.
"You don't want to know," Sylvan said wearily, sinking into his usual chair at the table. "I ran across a servant with—"
He broke off, tired eyes widening with shock and more than a bit of horror. He snatched up the forgotten mask and shook it at Kirel.
"Tell me you weren't there! You can't have been part of that, that—" He broke off, for the first time in Kirel's experience unable to find words to express himself.
Kirel frowned, confused. "What are you talking about? I wasn't anywhere. I was right here all night, missing you."
Sylvan dropped the mask with a relieved sigh. He sagged against the chair back. "Sorry," he said, offering a wilted smile as apology. "Last night was just. . . Well, it was probably the most unpleasant performance I've ever done."
"Tell me." Kirel shoved his tray towards Sylvan, a tacit invitation. The Bard picked up a roll and nibbled on it. "What happened?"
"After you all got back, when I was looking for you, one of your riders found me. She said she was having a kurill to celebrate, and would I play for the evening? Of course I said yes. I'm a Bard, that's what Bards do, even when they don't know what in hells a kurill is. I guess you were off with the King or something, because I never did get to see you. That's part of what made the night so miserable. I just wanted to see you, make sure you were okay, and you'd come back all in one piece."
Kirel smiled and reached for Sylvan's empty hand across the table. "I'm fine."
"I'm glad. I might never be the same again, though. The things I saw. . . Ugh!" Sylvan shuddered dramatically, and Kirel noticed he looked a bit better, with more color in his face. Clearly being back home agreed with him. "Anyway, it turns out a kurill is a sex party."
"It's a what?"
"Yes, you heard that correctly. It's a sex party. Everyone shows up masked, then strips bare naked except for the mask right at the door. Then they eat, drink, and have sex all night long. They burn some kind of happy drug, too. I had a tisane to drink to counteract it, so I could keep playing, but it most certainly affected everyone else in that room."
"They had sex? With who?"
"Whoever," Sylvan shrugged. "I saw things in there I never even imagined. Men, women, three at a time, groups, whatever. No one seemed to care who did what to who. I guess once the masks go on and the clothes come off anything at all goes."
"Wow." Kirel finished off his bowl of cooked grains, trying to imagine what a whole roomful of people having sex together looked like. Might not be too bad, with the right people. Then again, think about what real people look like and imagine them with their clothes off. . . Eew. "I am very glad I didn't attend that party."
"Me, too," Sylvan said, with heartfelt fervor. "I don't want to share you with anyone! Much less dozens of perople."
"Rest easy, my Bard, because I don't want to be shared." Kirel gulped the last nasty swallow of kais and stood up. He gave Sylvan an awkward but warm hug and kiss. "I have to get moving, now that I know you're okay. Did you at least see anything that looked fun to try?"
Sylvan laughed. "After getting an eyefull of naked women, I kept my eyes right smack on my instruments. I'm sure I liked looking at tits when I was a baby, but now they do less than nothing for me. So no. I didn't see anything even moderately appealing."
"Drat. Guess the experience was all for naught, then." Kirel laughed, then went off to the stables with a far lighter heart, knowing Sylvan was alive and well, albeit thoroughly disgusted.
The morning got off to a bit of a rough start. More than a dozen riders showed up late, looking exhausted and hung over. Kirel began to understand Sylvan's distress as he took note of who looked like they'd been up drinking and having sex all night. Nobody who he'd like to see naked, for sure. So just to make them work it off, he really drove people hard. Not that he was upset or anything, but honestly, yesterday's performance left a lot to be desired. Much hard work remained before the cavalry could function as a real fighting unit.
The snow started falling as Kirel ran his cavalrymen through patterns. No reins, no stirrups, no saddles. Just balance, posture, and leg. He'd trained the horses to go bridleless himself, so he knew the horses would be fine, but the humans looked like each and every one of them wanted to complain. Vigorously. Probably with a lot of curse words mixed into the complaints.
They needed to learn, though. Who could shoot a bow or swing a sword effectively with their hands full of reins? Besides, he couldn't think of a better way to build trust between horse and rider.
Kirel sighed to himself, watching one of the men awkwardly guide his mount through an improbably shaped circle. The horse faltered uncertainly, wobbling along an irregular path, when the first snow chunk plopped on Kirel's face. He'd been so focused on watching Carter's leg slip out of position he hadn't even noticed how cold the morning had grown. Startled by the wet splat, he looked away from Carter and up at the sky. Huge blobs of snow, not proper little snowflakes, fell forcefully out of the clouds.
"Carter!" Kirel called, looking at the freakishly large snow chunks falling rapidly now. "That's good enough for now. Bring him in. Everybody, I think the session's done for the day. We can get back to work tomorrow. Inside. And on time."
"You're telling me! I've never seen such heavy snow!" Carter's horse looked much more confident with a definite destination in mind, Kirel noted. He could tell Tenyk really wanted to laugh, but the Captain exercised admirable self-control.
"You'll see worse before long, I assure you. But this looks bad enough. My best guess is we'll see feet from this fall, not mere inches."
"Feet! Well. What happens if we all get snowed in?"
"Not if, my Prince. When. No worries, the castle is set up with more than enough underground passages between the outbuildings. We'll still be able to train through the winter."
"That's a very good thing," Kirel said, thinking once again of yesterday's less than stellar performance.
He spent the rest of the day with his tutors, as always, while outside the snow fell harder and buried the land under a heavy blanket of white. Before the day's dim light faded, the entire Northlands lay under a thick blanket of white, and the snow showed no sign of lessening.
Into Danger
Up on the third floor of Castle Larantyne, a large room overlooked the snowy courtyard, lined with windows. The glass on the windows was extremely thick amd bubbly, out of deference to the fierce climate, but it allowed plenty of light into the room, counteracting the general dreariness of life in a massive heap of stone. Ladies used this sunroom for their sewing, and socializing, and anything else they could think of to brighten the long winter days, such as harp lessons.
Sylvan demonstrated an alternative chording for Lady Mira on a medium-sized lap harp, one that would be easier for her small hands, when the King's favorite pageboy interrupted the lesson.
"Many apologies, my Lady," Sylvan said, bowing gracefully, after the little fellow delivered his message. "It seems the King has need of me, so I fear our lesson is ended."
"Oh, get on with you," Mira said, shooing him away with her hands. "I'll just sit here in the warmth and practice a bit on my own."
Sylvan left the Lady behind and followed the page out of the sunroom. What in all hells could the King want with him, anyway? Usually it was Kirel's company Riallen sought.
He found out, immediately after entering King Riallen's study.
"Bard, it's time for you to earn your keep."
Sylvan bit off a snide comment about how long he already played for his King's people each day and kept his voice to a tone of polite inquiry. "How so, my lord, if I haven't been doing that already?"
The King looked unusually apprehensive. "Remember what I said before about you going where I may not?" Sylvan nodded. "Queen Tilda of Castle Anarill put forward an offer to strengthen the alliance between our houses. Specifically, she wants me to marry her daughter, Princess Tiana. I want you and Kirel to go check her out for me, then return and tell me what you think of her and her mother. You'll leave tomorrow morning."
"Does Kirel know?" Sylvan's voice came out steady despite inner trepidation. A King, a man whose actions affected every person in an entire country, wanted him to investigate a potential bride? Sylvan doubted anyone back home would ever believe a King trusted him for such important advice.
"Yes. I spoke with him earlier, but I asked him not to tell you. He should be making arrangements for your departure now, securing the proper documentation and such, but I wanted to speak to you myself."
"I'm listening, my lord."
The King's mouth quirked upwards. "So you are. Well, then, what I want is this. You've got a good bit more experience handling touchy nobles than Kirel has. Will you keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn't get in over his depth? True, he was raised to rule, but there's a world of difference in being the Lord of a manor and a Prince of Larantyne. He's still clinging to that reluctance of his about having anything to do with royalty."
"Certainly, my lord. I will help him out with the nobles if he needs it." Sylvan refrained from pointing out that he actually had less experience dealing with real live nobility than Kirel. What he had was many hours of instruction on protocol and how to speak to nobility from various different lands without giving offense. Then he wondered aloud, "How long should this take?"
"No more than a week, please. I'll want to know what you find soon. I'm rather invested in this adventure of yours, after all." The King gave a wry smile.
"I understand, my lord. Is there anything else you need?"
"Yes," Riallen said, suddenly wistful. "Tell me this will work out well? Please? I have this terrible feeling, and I can't shake it. I'm tired of feeling all this gloom and doom impending."
Sylvan smiled. "Things will work out well," he said, giving his voice great confidence. "You'll see."
"Thanks, Bard. Now go, I'm sure you'll need to pack."
Sylvan left.
Riallen watched him leave, then rose and started pacing around the room. He'd already worn a trail into the floorboards, at least in his mind's eye, and he felt no easier inside. The unpleasant prickling sensation gripped him again, saying something's wrong, it's a trap, they're all out to get you!
Trying to ignore it did no good, the feeling just came back stronger later.
But what could he do? His disliked and distrusted his Chief Advisor, a man who previously served his father in the same capacity. He hadn't yet found a trustworthy soul to replace the old bastard, although he kept a watchful eye on Captain Tenyk of the cavalry. His Council advised jumping into the marriage straightaway, since a closer alliance with Anarill would be a very good thing. Marry the girl as soon as possible, then reap the rewards of having Anarill's strength at their disposal, shoring up the fragile remains of Larantyne. His father had nearly managed to destroy the age-old alliances between the castles of the Northlands with his pettiness and vile temper, all the while encouraging greed, selfishness, political games. Ruin. His court still seethed with petty intrigues, the kind born when people spent lunations out of every annum shut into the same space. Despite all his efforts to stomp out the intrigues, the blasted plots thrived in the face of his displeasure. Even his General Officers, men he trusted with his life, played Court politics. The only people Riallen truly trusted to have his best interests at heart were his cousin and the Bard, so off they went, snow and all.
The King threw himself back into his chair, dissatisfied. He knew he should be doing something, but what? Kings were supposed to get things done, not sit around powerless, feeling their world teetering on the brink of crashing down around them.
Riallen sighed, set aside his apprehension and frustration, and went back to work.
Sylvan and Kirel set out the next morning. Thunder remained in the stables, nursing a deep stone bruise acquired during a training session with a mounted soldier candidate. Someone neglected to pick rocks out of the indoor arena before the snows began. Instead, Sylvan rode one of the chunky local horses, the breed called Figro after its foundation sire. He felt very small beside Kirel on Dapple.
The journey stretched over two days, limited by the Figro's short legs. No new snow fell, one of few positive aspects of the journey.
Kirel froze. Well, perhaps not all the way, but close. He'd never imagined so much snow as that which covered the surrounding countryside, and he offered frequent prayers of thanks to the Mother Goddess that the magical road remained clear of the nasty white stuff. Biting, intense, and far worse than anything he'd believed possible away down south in Scholastica, or most especially his native canyonlands, the cold gnawed at him constantly. The only respite came when they stopped for the night and set up an enchanted tent, leftover from the days when Larantyne boasted an abundance of Magicmen. The specially treated, enchanted fabric raised the interior temperature to something almost bearable.
"Sylvan?"
"Yes?"
"Thanks again for insisting I get such warm gear last wint
er. I hate to think how frozen I'd be without your help."
"Poor southerner. I can believe you're still cold, even with all your protection, because even I'm feeling a bit chilled out here."
Kirel twisted around in his saddle, incredulity spreading across the little bit of his face visible between furball hat and lambswool muffler. "Is the world ending? Is the sky falling? Did I just hear Sylvan the Eternally Warm admit to being cold?"
"I'd stick my tongue out at you, but it might freeze," Sylvan said, without rancor.
"Unbelievable. Who would have thought I'd live to see this day?" Kirel shook his head, then rearranged his muffler when a frigid tendril of breeze snuck in.
The second short period of light passing for day in the Northlands died away long before the lights of Castle Anarill swam into view. The two chilled travellers urged the horses to a trot, the fastest pace Kirel would allow in the cold, and reached the castle walls in short order. A sentry challenged them at the gate, inspected their travel papers, then passed them through.
Castle Anarill strongly resembled Castle Larantyne, as did all the border castles. Each was designed and built over the course of two annums, with the help of the goddess. For nearly three millennia, each worked together to hold back the forces of darkness. Now, however, the damaged alliances were shaky at best. The line still stood, the Old Guard held firm against the enemy, but only an outsider saw the castles as united. Riallen's grandfather Drogue had started a period of conflict and political strife previously unknown in the Northern Alliance that still carried on in the present day.
Politics very much occupied Kirel's mind as he rode into the castle's inner courtyard, the clatter of hooves on frozen cobbles surrounding him. Banks of snow lined the roadway, shoved aside in an attempt to make getting around the courtyard easier. He hoped he'd absorbed enough of the local rules of the political "game" to see clearly what happened here. His cousin expected him to learn important facts that would affect the future of Larantyne; he couldn't just guess.
At least Sylvan shared this mission. He should know about politics. The Court Bard usually spent his time up to the ears in gossipy courtiers and would likely see a much clearer picture of the true situation than Kirel.
"Here we are," Sylvan said, breath a frosty plume in front of him.
"Yes," Kirel agreed. "Let the games begin."
The guard who'd challenged them at the gate sent a messenger on ahead, so by the time they'd ridden through the various training yards and reached the frozen, snow-covered lawn in front of the castle, a welcoming committee stood assembled beneath blazing elemental torches, bundled into bulky outerwear against the cold.
"Welcome to Castle Anarill, Emissaries," one shapeless bundle of furs said in a pure, ringing tenor. Kirel saw Sylvan's ears all but prick forward and his gaze sharpen with interest. Another musician? Perhaps. "Our Queen waits within. She has expressed great concern that you be made comfortable, and then brought to her at the Evening Court."
"Our thanks," Kirel said, taking the lead. No longer a mere armsman, he outranked his Bard now, as a Prince of the diminutive royal family of Larantyne. "We look forward to meeting Queen Tilda."
The Herald, for so the bundle proved to conceal, led them into the castle itself, trailed by avidly curious courtiers. They left the horses with grooms, assured that their packs would arrive at their destination before they did.
Castle Anarill used the same design as Larantyne, but the inside presented a completely different face. Here, tapestries woven of dyed wool depicting scenes of intense battle, interspersed with arms and armor on display, decorated the halls. The outer structure's grimness carried over to the inside, and Kirel's skin crawled as they approached the guest quarters. The unrelenting military feel of the place threatened to give him nightmares. How could these people stand it? If they wanted to live in the barracks, they should just go live in the barracks.
The Herald startled both Sylvan and Kirel by putting them in separate rooms.
"Prince Kirel, these are your rooms," he said, opening a door with a sweeping bow. "Bard, if you'll follow me?"
They exchanged one brief, startled glance before the Herald swept Sylvan off down the hall. Kirel shrugged internally and stepped into the suite. Maybe things were different here than back home. Best just get used to it right now, not cause a diplomatic incident.
A big, antique suit of armor loomed at him from the corner, holding a pike with a disciplinary air: behave, or I'll stick you. He gave it a dubious glance, than moved on into the bedroom, where he found his travel pack waiting for him.
Nervousness wrapped around Kirel like an extra cloak as he switched out his warm outdoor gear for something more suited to meeting a Queen and her daughter. What was he doing here, anyway? Playing Prince.
He flinched away from the memory of what the King, his cousin, had said to him when laying this important mission on his shoulders. Kirel's initial reaction had been one of fearful uncertainty.
Grow up, Kirel! Like it or not, you're a Prince of Larantyne. Now suck it up and start acting like one.
His cousin had been thoroughly angered by that reaction, and for good reason. He needed an heir, not a wimp. Kirel gave himself a good shake, got a grip on his feeling of inadequacy, and went back to dressing.
I never met Aunt Mairead, but everything I've heard tells me she'd probably kick your butt right up between your ears if she caught you acting this way!
Ouch. Painful, but true. Kirel had thought long and hard, as he and Sylvan made their way here in the insane cold, and he'd come to the decision that he didn't really like himself much at the moment. When had he become such a whiner? Oh, sure, he had excuses to whine, but he also possessed the ability to pick himself up and move on, something he'd somehow managed to overlook. He'd allowed himself to wallow in self-pity for what seemed like annums now, and self-indulgence as well, never looking outside his own personal desires, and sometimes Sylvan's. He'd somehow managed to lose all the self-confidence he'd enjoyed before his parents died. When he was younger, he'd been willing to take on anything, including military strategy and horse breeding. He'd come up with the cross that produced Dapple when he was ten, for Awenn's sake! He felt confident enough with his cavalry and the horses, but even there, look at his response to their first engagement. He cringed at the thought of what his parents would say to him, were they still alive.
Well, there certainly wasn't anything self-indulgent about the situation right now. This grim castle counted as almost the last place in the world Kirel wanted to be, right up there with visiting his other cousin Jackon. But he had a job to do, a very important one, and his King needed him.
He felt that familiar twinge of discomfort at the thought of serving a King, then dismissed it angrily. Never mind all the horsecrap he'd been raised to believe about never bowing to a King's authority, he hadn't been Lord of a freeheld manor in quite some time. He'd even been a common laborer, shovelling horse turds before dawn. What gave him the right to protest his position now? Just because he'd grown up independent of King and country, with parents that rejected all things royal, didn't cut him loose from his birthright. And more important than his uneasiness about being a Prince, Riallen was right. His mother would kick his butt so hard it'd keep him standing for a week if she heard him whining like he had been lately. All questions of royalty aside, she despised whining, and pathetic wimps. How did Sylvan ever put up with him, anyway?
Kirel shook off the unpleasant thoughts, tied his hair back, and went out into the corridor, intending to find Sylvan's quarters. Instead, he found a guard.
"Please stay in your suite, Prince Kirel," the man said, anonymous behind a helm with lowered visor. Kirel started to say something, but the guard continued speaking right over him. "Someone will be along shortly to conduct you to the Great Hall. Security demands that you remain safely in your rooms."
Kirel drew another breath to protest, then turned and went back into the suite. Getting to see Sylvan a few minutes
early wasn't quite enough reason to cause a diplomatic incident.
He made his way to a couch and sat, resisting the urge to kick things along the way. Wouldn't do to get through deciding to act more grown up, then indulge in a temper tantrum. Even if he really wanted to pitch a fit. What kind of security threat could he possibly pose? Especially by just walking down a corridor to find his lover? Which maybe he shouldn't advertise. These people seemed more than a bit strange. He'd better just assume they'd be as hostile to his and Sylvan's relationship as the folk of Shandar and let it be for now.
A knock sounded at the door, which opened immediately to reveal the Herald.
"Why did that guard want to keep me in here?" Kirel demanded, as soon as the man entered.
"Prince Kirel, it is time for your official welcome. Please come with me. And remember, the guards are here for your safety. You and the Bard are not the only guests in this castle, so our security is in a heightened state."
What kind of guests require heightened security? Kirel wondered, but he went along with the Herald to collect Sylvan.
Any hopes of speaking to Sylvan privately died as they moved through the evening, the Bard with his usual grace and style, Kirel with a feeling of mounting desperation.
The Herald led them to the Great Hall, a vast cavern of a room with high, vaulted ceilings, lit with torches and vast quantities of somewhat smelly tallow candles. Incense smoke drifted in clouds from burners spaced at intervals along the outside walls, and fabulously dressed people glittered as they circulated through the room, speaking with each other freely enough, but with an edge of brittle desperation, as though the conversations concealed rot and decay. An underlying thread of tension wound through the room, almost visible in its convoluted path.
Tables of food stood arrayed along the outer walls, where people could serve themselves as they chose. Kirel ate a little bit out of politeness, but the strange atmosphere and the inability to get anywhere near Sylvan kept him on edge.
The Queen sat on a dais in a magnificent velvet robe, overlooking the festivities from her throne with a stern expression. When the Herald presented the visiting Prince and Bard, she acknowledged them with a regal nod of her head, then turned her attention to a man standing to the left of the throne, a very strange looking fellow indeed. He caught Kirel's eye immediately, somehow out of place in his bland, monkish attire. Pale, almost chalky skin, topped with a wild mass of unusually black hair, hung loose down below his shoulders. Rather tall. Dark, penetrating eyes. And. . . something about him seemed just not right. Looking directly at him, he was just a weird-looking man in a long black robe. Looking slightly beside him, a flickering, spiky aura of some sort danced around him, like the air itself warped and twisted, rather than come in contact with the man.
Kirel desperately wished he could get near Sylvan, but the Bard was surrounded by a flock of women immediately after their introduction to the Queen and Court. Kirel noticed one odd thing, though, which went right along with his own impression. Sylvan wouldn't go anywhere near the odd-looking fellow. Kirel trusted the Bard's instincts even more than his own.
As for the reason of their visit. . . Well, Kirel could see the Princess. She sat on the dais, on the right of her mother the Queen, and watched the proceedings with a dreamy half-smile that never changed. She looked pretty enough, always a plus when inspecting someone's future bride, with creamy skin and rich red hair. Her mouth looked a bit too big for her face, but the rest of her made up for that. She might as well be floating on a cloud, though, because Kirel couldn't get near her to save his life.
The courtiers fit right in with the general impression of strangeness. Their voices carried an increasing edge of desperation, echoed in their eyes, and the atmosphere felt as though people were determined to enjoy themselves even if they died trying. Again and again, Kirel asked questions, only to be deflected by comments about the weather, or his velvet and spiderweave clothing, or how much he looked like all his ancestors. Of course, only the oldest courtiers made that remark, because of course there'd been no visitors from Larantyne in many, many annums.
Kirel grew increasingly frustrated as the night progressed. He couldn't even get close to Sylvan. He'd initially thought it pure coincidence that every time he tried to get the Bard alone someone just had to have his attention, but it happened far too often. And there was no way in the world Kirel intended to say anything he wanted to talk to the Bard about in front of an audience! He could see Sylvan's frustration, too, which made him feel a little better about his paranoia.
Even when they gave up on the festivities and headed for their rooms, Sylvan and Kirel weren't alone. A guard followed each of them.
Kirel managed to keep his voice pleasant as he wished his lover a polite goodnight, but he knew Sylvan could see his frustration. Just as Kirel could see the tension in Sylvan's eyes, hear the edge of anger in his voice. . . Hopefully the guards didn't see the upset in either of them.
Back in his lonely suite, Kirel exchanged his finery for a simple nightshirt, thinking hard. What an unsatisfactory evening. He felt more than half inclined to call the whole thing off and go back home, tell his cousin that the people of Castle Anarill were all nuts and not worth bothering with.
But that would hardly be constructive. So Kirel sat down and wrote out a bunch of notes about his impressions of the evening, including his frustration at the inability to talk to anyone important privately, and went to bed.
Something woke him in the middle of the night. What? Some strange sound, a whisper of movement where there should be none, the lack of Sylvan's warmth beside him? He lay quietly in the unfamiliar bed, but whatever it was didn't repeat. He started to relax, drift back off to sleep, when something rustled.
Kirel's eyes flew open, but he couldn't see anything in the windowless black room. Then he felt a brief, sharp pain on the back of his hand, the one that had snuck out from under the covers while he slept, looking for Sylvan and finding only an extra pillow.
"Ow!" He snatched his hand back under the covers.
Well, at least he tried to.
Halfway through the motion, Kirel's entire body locked up, and he couldn't move. At all. A shadow loomed over him, black on black and utterly terrifying in the darkness, and made a whispery sound, a wheezy little cackle.
"Welcome to the darkness, little Prince," the shadow whispered.
Kirel tried to move, to say something, to strike out at the menacing shadow, but nothing happened. His lungs still worked, and he could feel his heart pounding in sudden panic, but nothing else moved at all.
Then the shadow touched him with cold, prickly hands, and lifted his stiffened body with the greatest of ease, as though Kirel weighed less than the air itself. Muttering to itself in a sibilant undertone, the being in the darkness steered the floating, paralyzed Prince out of the bedchamber and into the unknown.
Escape
Sylavn watched the door close behind his lover with a feeling of near panic, leaving him alone in this castle filled with horrible tensions and disturbing undercurrents. Maybe it was a good thing the Anarillians wanted to keep him and Kirel apart. Otherwise, they'd be gone, and the entire mission abandoned. Because the second he got time alone with Kirel, he meant to convince his lover to leave. Now. Tell the King to look elsewhere for a bride, because he certainly didn't want a closer alliance with this bunch of freaks.
"In you go," his guard said, opening the door to his assigned suite and breaking the chain of whimpery thoughts. "And mind you don't come out again. If you need anything, you just tell me, but stay inside where it's safe."
"Safe?" Sylvan arched an eyebrow, pausing in the doorway to look at the guard. "Why shouldn't I be safe, here in the heart of a massive stronghold?"
"You will be, as long as you stay inside," the guard replied. "We've got more visitors than just you and the Prince, and between you and me, I don't trust 'em."
"Are you talking about that strange fellow that sat with the Queen?"
The guard gave him a sharp look. "Sir Bard, I think you should just close that door now, and go to bed."
"Oh, come now," Sylvan laughed, although he felt anything but amused. "You're the first friendly person I've met in this place. Surely you're not going to send me to bed like an unruly child, for doing what all visitors anywhere do and asking a question?"
The guard looked around the corridor. Seeing no one, he shook his head and relaxed a bit. "Perhaps not. Perhaps I'd like a chance to talk with someone who's not involved in any of the strange dealings in Castle Anarill these days."
"I'd ask what you're talking about, but I reckon I already know what your response would be," Sylvan said, leaning casually against the doorframe. "So tell me or not, as you will, and I'll ask a different question. What's your name?"
"Brendan. So tell me, what's life like where you come from?"
Sylvan settled in with the chatty guard, talking with apparent unconcern. But he managed to learn bits and pieces of information, teased from the guard without the man noticing just what he'd given away, that made his guts clench tight and set his nerves completely on edge.
First and foremost, the Princess had recently become a completely different person. She'd gone from a cheerful and curious young lady, always poking her nose in where it didn't belong, to a quiet and distant dreamer overnight. The change in behavior coincided with the arrival of Lord Malvon, the creepy black-haired man, and the Queen herself starting to act strange. She suddenly kept but a hair-thin hold on her temper, likely as not to order someone punished for the slightest transgression, and seemed stuck in a permanent foul mood.
Those facts, although few and fragmentary, added up with Sylvan's own impressions to make him want all the more to grab Kirel and run. He might not be a native of the Northlands, but that didn't make him an idiot. He could see the trouble coming just as plain as day. What kind of trouble, that he couldn't say, but trouble all the same.
Brendan suddenly broke off mid-laugh, looking down the hall, towards Kirel's suite. Sylvan caught a glimpse of something black moving before the guard shoved him.
"Inside! Now! No questions."
Sylvan blinked at the suddenly closed door, then shrugged and pressed himself against the crack, listening for any sounds from outside. His othersense prickled. He tried to ignore it, but the sensation of approaching evil just wouldn't leave him alone.
No sounds from the corridor. Sylvan gave up on listening and, feeling more than a bit silly, started looking for a way out of the suite that didn't involve passing Brendan.
Not much luck, there. The suite had one way in or out. . . that he could see. Castle Larantyne held a whole warren of hidden routes, though, passages within the walls used by servants to get around unobtrusively. Perhaps, since they were designed by the same hand, Castle Anarill held the same.
Sylvan set about looking for a hidden doorway with a will. Silly or no, his othersense burned at him, going absolutely wild with the sense of evil nearby, and he wanted a way out of these rooms. To make things worse, he could feel something gone wrong with Kirel, but not what. Times like these made him wish he'd not sworn off. . . but no. No need to go there, because he finally felt the hidden catch he sought. He got the well-concealed door open and slipped into the corridor.
Sylvan moved through the dusty, dark corridor, one hand on the guide rail. He tried to ignore the jeering memory-voices of his brothers, of other boys he'd known: weakling, coward, hide-behind, run and tell Mommy! You're not good for anything.
Don't think. Just focus on one problem at a time. He moved unseen through a secret passage. He needed to find out what was wrong with Kirel. Nothing more. Focus.
Here in the borderlands seperating, in a very literal sense, good from evil, only one thing could possibly be the problem here. That freak with the twisting aura must be some kind of servant of darkness, a Darklord or something similar. That flash of darkness he'd seen entering Kirel's room would be a Nameless One, come to steal away the visiting Prince and eat his soul.
Sylvan didn't stop to question his wild assumption, because it felt so right. Insane? Perhaps, but also the most plausible explanation for the evil which all but dripped from the air here in this unhappy castle. He could feel it everywhere, particularly around that weird man. He'd doubted his own perceptions at first, but the longer he'd spent talking to courtiers, with their barely-concealed tension and internal panic, the less he'd been able to fool himself. The castle Anarill and all its inhabitants seethed with evil.
Soul-eating only occurred outside. He wasn't sure why, but it always happened outside, in every single tale, epic saga, or ballad. Perhaps whatever monstrous demonic force ate the souls hated walls. Whatever. They would take Kirel outside. He would get Dapple from the stable and snatch Kirel out from under their noses. And if he was wrong, if no Nameless Ones waited to eat his lover's soul, then he'd be completely thrilled to feel silly running about the icy courtyard for no reason.
It made perfect sense, though. The visitor with the twisted aura arrived, and suddenly the Princess had a complete personality change. Everyone knew soul-eating left a completely malleable blank slate of a slave behind, only capable of following commands.
"Control the Princess, use her as a lure, control Kirel. Order him to bring in his cousin. Kill off the King, or control him, no matter. Same effect either way. Larantyne falls. With the Dark One now in control of two castles, the Alliance dies, and evil wins. Shit!"
Whispering to himself as he navigated by guesswork did nothing to improve the situation. Rather, it made things worse, because speaking the words solidified the speculation into complete reality.
The corridor made a turn. Sylvan hoped he wouldn't get lost here in the bowels of a castle taken by the enemy, with the fate of the entire free world resting squarely on his shoulders.
Time passed swiftly in the darkness. Sylvan moved faster and faster, until he pelted through the dark corridor at a full run, one hand always on the guide rail. Time sneered at him, suddenly become his mortal enemy. How long did a soul-eating ritual take? How long had he been in here?
Leftover smells of food reached him on the stale corridor air and he nearly wept with relief. His gamble had paid off. The corridor led to the kitchens! And from the kitchens, it was a simple matter to reach the stable.
Right, simple. Running across a huge snow- and ice-covered space under the light of a nearly full moon, shining through its thin shroud of fast-moving clouds. He'd almost be willing to use magic, if it would make him invisible to normal human sight. Almost. But not with all the evil saturating this place. He felt absolutely no desire to light himself up like a tasty beacon, advertising his presence to all with the senses to detect it.
He found the door accessing the kitchen and held his breath, telling his heart to quiet down. He heard nothing over its frantic pounding. Cautiously, he eased the door open. Nothing happened. He slipped through into the pantry and secured the door behind himself.
The kitchen spread before him, deserted. Not even a night cook kept watch by the smallest of the hearths. Finally, a bit of luck!
He paused for one long moment. Certainly he'd convinced himself that Castle Anarill had gone over to the enemy, but that didn't make his speculations real. He'd better get confirmation before he went to the bother of tacking up the horses. Especially with Kirel's life at stake.
Sylvan darted through the kitchen, paused at the doorway, then hesitated. Where would be the best place to eat a Prince's soul? Clearly not in the courtyard, the residents of the castle didn't yet know their leader had betrayed them all. Nor did he, for that matter, but his instincts seldom led him wrong.
An image swam into his mind of the pavillion in the garden where he'd played for the ladies in waiting much of the summer. Small, to fit within the castle walls, but as private as one could get, tucked at the back end of the formal gardens between the barracks and the outer wall. There.
He didn't question the certainty, just made a run for th
e pavillion. It would be here, too, just like the hidden ways. Through the kitchen garden, buried under mounds of snow. The paths lay knee deep in the stuff. Good thing he had well-developed lungs, plunging through the unbroken piles of heavy snow made for seriously hard work. And of course he left a trail behind him a blind man could follow.
Then the formal gardens, and here he came upon some more luck. Well, of a sort. Actually what he saw terrified him, because it nearly confirmed his guess. The main path through the formal gardens was trampled flat with footprints. He tried to focus on how easily he could move now, but he really felt panic set in at the first sign that his convictions had some foundation in reality.
He heard something over the sound of his own feet in the snow. Voices chanting. Peculiarly empty voices, with no hint of resonance or personality.
Shit. He slid to a halt, looked around frantically. Firelight flickered in the area where the pavillion should be, since Anarill and Larantyne shared the same layout. Torches? Who used actual flaming torches these days?
Forget it. Just run for the stable and get the horses. Now.
Sylvan launched himself towards the stable without giving himself any more time to think. His muscles strained, unaccustomed to running for any reason, especially in deep snow, but his breath continued to come easily to his trained lungs. He pelted through the formal garden, past the barracks and the training pens, forcing his legs to keep bounding through the snow on willpower alone.
And then he reached the stable. He burst through the door, straight into a pair of guards.
"Oh no you don't!" one of them growled, and hit him in the head with a club.
Sylvan's head exploded into fire and he fell to the floor, but he remained conscious. "Please!" he gasped, fighting off nausea. His head hurt. "Please, you're human. Help me!"
"Hold off, Loman," the guard who'd hit him said, waving to the other guard to lower his sword. "What do you mean, we're human?"
"The Nameless Ones, they've taken Kirel, and one of the Darklords had your Princess eaten, and. . ." Then he made the mistake of trying to look at the guards. The pain surged, and Sylvan retched. He heard dim and distant voices arguing through the pain, then large hands moving him, and a wet cloth scrubbing at his mouth.
"Bard! Sorry I hit you so hard, they told me you were plotting something against my Queen. What's this about Nameless Ones? Speak up now, or we'll have to decide you really are an enemy."
"There's a deal," Sylvan gasped, fighting for control of his stomach. It helped if he kept his eyes closed and didn't move. He no longer doubted his own deductions. That chanting gave him proof enough. "Your Queen. A Darklord. Princess Tiana's soul got eaten. Trap for my King. Take castle Anarill, take Castle Larantyne. Power base. Move on others, win war."
"Warrior's tits! Shel, you can't believe that! Let me finish him off."
"Truth! They have Kirel. Go—check pavillion. Soul-eating ritual."
The world spun madly around Sylvan. He heard the two guards arguing, then one stomped off. He hoped he was left with the nicer one.
Evidently, he was. The guard (Shel? Was that his name?) tied a strip of cloth around his head, muttering something about it not being right to hit a Bard, and he was only following orders.
Sylvan opened his eyes cautiously. "Thanks," he said, touching the rough bandage. "I'm not lying."
"Bard, for all of our sakes, I hope you are," Shel said, shaking his head. "Haven't fought all my life to keep the Northlands safe just to see them fall through treachery. But look here. Will you stay where you're at?"
Sylvan started to nod. The flare of pain that exploded, leaving bright streaks through his vision, convinced him not to. "Yes," he whispered instead.
"I'm going to get that Great Horse, just in case. That other nag you brought here ain't worth spit."
"Thanks." Sylvan closed his eyes again, one burning worry eased. Although how in hells he thought himself capable of rescuing Kirel in his current condition evaded him. Not even magic could help a broken head.
Shel approached with Dapple just in time to see his fellow guard returning at a dead run.
"Bard's right," Loman grunted. "We gotta rouse the garrison. They've set up the ritual in the garden, right proper, and got King Riallen's cousin ready to bend over the altar right now."
The confirmation of his speculation as reality barely registered. Sylvan staggered upright, previously untapped depths of willpower carrying him through the pain. Although being dead might be less painful, it wouldn't help matters any in Larantyne. Therefore, he must get himself and Kirel out of this mess somehow.
Shel helped him up on Dapple, then wished him luck and ran for the garrison with Loman. Sylvan clutched the Great Horse's mane and waited for his head to quit spinning.
It didn't, but he opened his eyes and guided Dapple toward the garden pavillion anyway. Time still slipped away, and every moment he wasted brought him closer to losing his lover forever.
He nudged Dapple into a long walk, the gait faster than most horses could trot. He wanted to arrive at the courtyard able to think, and he didn't think he could survive the jouncing of a faster pace.
The courtyard held a scene straight from a nightmare. Black-robed figures chanted in a circle around an altar, arms raised in supplication. Kirel stood, swaying woozily, while a Nameless One held a sickle-blade up high and called out a harsh-voiced invocation. A smoky column of darkness rose from the altar, thin now, but growing, and already reaching questing tendrils toward Kirel.
Sylvan gave a shout and booted Dapple forward, scattering Nameless Ones in a confused swirl. Kirel's eyes turned slowly, dreamily, towards him, with no sign of recognition.He looked a lot like the Princess.
"Kirel! Your hand!" Sylvan shouted, around a violent twist of heartache at those blank, blank eyes.
Slowly, too slowly, Kirel responded. His arms, unbound, rose from his sides. Sylvan leaned so far from the saddle he thought he would fall. But he grabbed Kirel's arms and wrenched himself and his lover back into the saddle, using Dapple's momentum to shift Kirel's unexpectedly heavy weight.
Pain bloomed behind his eyes, wrenched at his shoulder. He nearly blacked out, then came back to consciousness with a cry when Dapple let loose an angry squeal. The horse reared and struck out at Nameless Ones. Sylvan clutched his sides so hard with his legs that they hurt. Not that they could compete with his head, of course.
Kirel's weight shifted, then shifted again when Dapple dropped back to the ground. Sylvan hauled his lover's body into a more or less secure position over the horse's shoulders (withers, a memory corrected in Kirel's voice), then sent Dapple into a charge straight through the Nameless Ones. They scattered like chaff on a stiff breeze, right into the arrival of Anarill's Home Guard. Fighting broke out immediately, swordsmen against dark mages.
How he held onto both horse and Kirel, Sylvan never knew. But somehow, he managed. He remained conscious despite the agony in his head and his nausea. He saw strange, flickering lights off to the sides. Reality, or illusion? He couldn't tell. He barely remembered how to guide the horse from the garden to the stableyard, where there was a weak point in the castle defenses: an unguarded gate. Right beside the stables. He knew it stood unguarded, because the guards who should be manning it had attacked him, then run off to start an insurrection.
Unmanned, but not open. Sylvan sobbed in frustration, then reined in his emotions because they hurt. His head wouldn't allow him to think, let alone emote. How to get out?
"Damn!" How to get out? "Thtocken drekel!"
But strong language didn't open the gate.
"Dapple, help out here," he said, stricken by a sudden memory. Kirel once told him that the horse was trained to do something called a side-pass, a way to get right up to a wall or gate or whatever. But how? "I know you know how to do this, your master told me so, but I don't know how to tell you to do it, and I know if I get down I'll never get back up again."
A noise attracted Sylvan's attention, and he saw so
mething approaching. A host of Nameless Ones moved slowly towards the stables, chanting with a nightmarish sense of purpose. Glowing green smoke twisted lazily through the air around them. Sylvan couldn't help himself—he whimpered. Then he gave a tug on the reins to turn Dapple broadside to the wall. Some instinct he didn't pause to analyze told him to push against Dapple's side, the one away from the wall, with his leg. The horse snorted and stepped smoothly sideways, snug up against the gate. Sylvan bent down, once again fighting nausea and the need to black out, and unbolted the gate.
The Nameless ones were very, very close. How had they escaped the Home Guard? The gardens must be a scene of pure carnage. The voices came to him clearly now on the brittle night air, chanting in a language he'd never heard spoken outside an ancient ballad: Come, Serpent, come. Take your lawful prey. Come, Serpent, come. . .
But it didn't matter, because the gate swung open.
Then Dapple stepped through the gate, free of the castle and the nightmare. Sylvan dropped the reins and summoned the last of his strength.
"Go home, Dapple! Go home!"
He kicked, weakly, then collapsed over Kirel's body and the Great Horse's neck.
Dapple tossed his head, sniffed the wind, and turned towards Castle Larantyne. He jogged off into the frigid night, leaving behind the castle now aglow with flame. Home he was bidden, and home he would go, carrying his friend and the other safely until they reached their destination. Too bad the two humans made such an awkward load.
Warning
Voices nagged at Sylvan, buzzing annoyingly. They wouldn't let him rest. Now someone messed with his head, turning it, blotting at it with something unpleasantly hot and drippy. He protested, twisting away from the wet that hurt. More voices buzzed.
"Go'way," he groaned, with a throat that wouldn't work properly and a tongue that felt swollen.
"No," one voice spoke clearly enough for him to understand. "Sylvan. Wake up. We need you."
"No."
"Yes. Tell me what happened."
"Nameless Ones." Sylvan remembered that much. He didn't want to think about the Nameless Ones. "Took Kirel. Took Princess. Trap."
"A trap?" The voice sharpened. "Trap for who, Sylvan?"
"For the King. Now lemme alone. Head hurts."
"I'm sorry, Bard," the voice said, softer now. Sylvan felt a gentle hand smooth the hair off his forehead, easing the tickle that he hadn't even noticed. "I have to know. How were you hurt?"
"Club," Sylvan said, sulky. He just wanted to be left alone. "Hurts. Lemme alone."
"And Kirel? How was he hurt?"
Kirel! Sylvan struggled for more awareness. He opened his eyes. Blurs surrounded him, one closer than the others. Flickering light awoke nausea and he quickly shut his eyes again. "Nameless Ones took him. They wanted to eat his soul. Is he safe?"
"Yes, Sylvan, he's safe now. Did you get him away before they completed the ritual?"
"Yes."
"Good. Kirel is safe now, and so are you. You've saved us all, Bard. Rest now."
Kirel was safe. Sylvan relaxed. He hadn't failed. Safe.
Blackness reached out and took him into welcoming arms.
Soulquest
The next time Sylvan woke, the world moved around him. The grey sky swayed overhead and he heard hoofbeats, creaking wood. . . wheels rolling? He groaned with the effort, but managed to turn his head enough to see the side of a wagon. Somehow he'd gotten into a supply wagon. A supply wagon? But why—
The King! For some reason, the King hadn't waited for their report, and was on the road himself. Dapple must have taken him to the King, and the wagon, not the whole world, rolled along the magic road because he'd gotten out the warning in time. He remembered someone questioning him, when all he wanted to do was just sleep.
He thought about sitting up, but decided against it. Instead he turned his head to the other side, very cautiously, and saw Kirel laid out beside him, white and silent and barely breathing.
Sylvan raised a hand, about all the effort he felt capable of, and took his lover's hand in his own.
By the time they reached the castle, Sylvan managed to piece together a sketchy timeline of that night. He couldn't remember the ride at all, but somehow he must have stayed on top of Dapple and kept hold of Kirel. The horse passed through the King's camp, which straddled the road connecting Castles Anarill and Larantyne, and Turcil caught him. Evidently other people tried to reach him, but he just shook them off and kept jogging steadily down the road until someone he knew told him he was home. Then the Great Horse neighed and halted, allowing people to remove his unconscious burdens.
That was when King Riallen had badgered Sylvan awake and he'd delivered his somewhat garbled warning. The camp packed up and left immediately, despite the darkness. They'd been on the road in the first place because the King's Council had nagged him into going to see the Princess himself. He'd extracted a tiny bit of revenge by demanding they accompany him, out on the magical road in the dark of winter. They hadn't gotten far, with their supply wagons and travel shelters and support staff, which proved to be a very good thing for Sylvan and Kirel.
Kirel lay still as death, unresponsive to the world around him. Sylvan still hurt, his head a constant mass of aching pain. Not even he could reach Kirel, although he tried and tried. He even closed his eyes against the pain and played for his lover as they traveled, just simple tunes on a small, borrowed lap-harp, but possibly enough to wake the man.
Nothing worked.
Safely back at the castle, the King sent his men into a whirlwind of preparation. If Anarill had fallen, and not even the Council doubted the Bard's word in light of the Prince's condition, that meant the whole of the Alliance must be warned, and the men prepared for battle. Now, not in springtime.
As the messengers sped away to the other three castles and all the fortresses and outposts in between, travelling swiftly on the magical road that stayed clear no matter how much snow fell, Kirel lay unconscious, and Sylvan sat beside him and played his dulcilute, Kirel's favorite instrument. Unbidden, an image formed in his head of the goddess's chapel door opening slowly, inviting him to enter.
Sylvan's hands clenched on the strings with a discordant twang. "All right," he said through gritted teeth. "All right! You win."
He set the dulcilute carefully on the chair beside Kirel's bed and stalked out of the room. The image had haunted him, hounded him really, since their arrival back at the castle. He'd tried to ignore it, but now, after days on end, he finally felt desperate enough to look for some divine aid. So he gave in and sought out Kirel's goddess.
He yanked open the door, filled with a combination of annoyance and fear. A woman, wearing a red and black robe, spun around and glared at him.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you—"
He started to apologize, only to be cut off by an angry snarl.
"It's about time you got here. The Maiden was all serene, like She always is, saying Don't worry, he'll come. Me, I was all for going out there and yanking your scrawny ass in here like a sack of potatoes, but I can't touch you, not with the Maiden's mark on you so strong. I can't act anyway, and that's got Me mad!"
The woman's voice rose to a wordless shriek, and Sylvan winced away in pain. "Your pardon, Lady," he said, fighting to keep the whimper out of his voice. The woman's voice was nearly unbearable when she shrieked like that. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
*Bard Sylvan,* a gentle voice interrupted the first lady's reply. Sylvan noted, startled, that he heard it inside, like the voice of the Eldest. *You are indeed well come to My house. I am sorry you felt the need to distance yourself for so long.*
"What is going on?" Sylvan cried, looking around in vain for the second speaker. The robed lady laughed at him, an angry cackle.
"Go on, Maiden. Tell him. I grow weary of his mortal foolishness."
*Sylvan. Over here.*
Slowly, Sylvan yielded to the tug on his soul and saw a transparent form perched on the Maide
n's altar. She appeared to be a young maiden, barefoot and in a white shift, but he could see right through her and her eyes consisted of pools of verdant green light. He swallowed hard and knelt. A goddess. The Goddess, She of the Four Faces. Real! Not myth, not legend. Not even heresy, as some claimed.
"Goddess. Forgive me if I have offended you in any way."