“And Kive,” piped up the fallen fae. “Kive is also on Shiny’s side. Kive is.”
Gwyn grinned. “So you are, Kive. And I thank you for it.”
Chapter 19
Growing up on the streets of Charquae, Nathael thought he knew hustle and bustle. But that city appeared tranquil and pastoral compared to the noise and mayhem of Crowwell’s markets. Bodies pushed and jostled as voices rose in a deafening din, competing uselessly, for surely no one could make out a single word any merchant said.
Worst of all hovered the stench: sweat, raw fish, refuse, perfume, sweet breads, hay, horses, all assaulting the senses until Nathael grew dizzy and nauseated. He spent his first two days acclimatizing to the thoroughfares, before he could navigate to the troughs and taverns to glean any tidbits on the war. Idle gossip harbored little by way of reliable army movements. Instead, whispers centered on much nearer threads of news.
Among it, a single name caught Nathael’s attention: Sir Bened Arnnor.
Another name always accompanied it.
Lady Arianwen ren Targeth wasn’t a familiar courtier, but Nathael knew little of noble Houses. His meager knowledge came from Nox, who daydreamed often of becoming a knight to win some fair lady’s hand—but that didn’t mean Nathael had paid special attention. Still, as he skulked about the tavern doorways, adopting the persona of a wandering waif, virtually invisible, he heard names he’d forgotten but now recalled. Other names, every soul in Simaerin knew by heart.
Lord Traycen ren Lotelon, for instance.
At the Winged Sword, a well-kept establishment off the King’s Road, Nathael shrugged off his flea-bitten cloak in the nearby alley, squared his shoulders, and entered the tavern as a respectable tradesman, young but well enough off to buy a pint or two. The tavern keeper, a middle-aged man not unlike Nox’s baker father, nodded in greeting as Nathael helped himself to a solitary table far from a lively bunch of soldiers. He settled instead near an elderly man and his plump, rather chipper companion—likely a granddaughter, whose taste for wine showed in her complexion. They weren’t wealthy, nor were they paupers. Likely of the merchant class. Nathael had an inkling they would serve his purpose well.
“What can I get you, young sir?” asked the tavern keeper as he approached, routinely wiping a tankard with a white cloth.
“Mead,” said Nathael, smiling amiably.
“Very good, sir.” The keeper strolled away as Nathael settled back to partake of the chattering girl’s every word.
It took time—two mugs of mead for him, three goblets of wine for her—before the plump young woman landed on the topic Nathael had caught snatches of at previous establishments.
“But can you imagine?” gasped the girl between gulps. “The knight of Montré’s Folly, the foppish fool who thinks himself so aloof and superior, stooping at last to the Crow King’s command? And why? For a woman no less! I will grant, Lady Arianwen is the loveliest creature this side of Londolin. Worst of all, I doubt she knows he even exists.”
The elderly man seated across from the girl offered a patient smile. “One mustn’t believe all one hears, my dear.”
“Perhaps not, but everyone is talking about it. It’s a secret, and those make the best telling. Imagine! Bened Arnnor kowtowing to the king. Not so high and mighty now, is he?”
“It is no child’s game the knight plays,” said the man, and took a sip of wine. “After all, he’s ridden straight into the enemy camp.”
“All because Lady Arianwen is in danger.” The plump girl sighed and rested her chin on her fat hands. “How I long to be in danger. Would that some knight found me worthy to risk life and limb for!”
The man smiled his patient smile. “Better to marry a good honest tradesman or farmer. Security is worth far more than romance and heroics, my dear.”
Nathael stayed to finish his mead, though his mind reeled with the implications. Bened Arnnor was acting on the Crow King’s behalf? He’d gone to the Winter Camp only to spy and betray King Gwynter? Was the Lady of Targeth truly in danger? Was that the true motive for Bened’s betrayal, or was he loyal to the Crow banner?
Pressing two coins to the table, Nathael rose and started past the girl and her grandfather. The girl looked up and flashed a smile. He nodded back and moved on, dismissing her from his mind. He must send word to King Gwynter. Bened Arnnor knew much already, and if he sent word to the Crow King about any of Gwynter’s plans, it may unravel everything the Winter Army struggled for.
He would send a pigeon and then seek Rindermarr Lorric. Along with shelter and sustenance, the priest could perhaps aid him in learning more of the capital’s goings-on. Especially how the Crow King intended to retaliate against Gwynter for the taking of Bayton and the hamlet of Trayton.
“Without supplies, the Winter Army is lost,” said Towwen Brym, slapping a hand against the tabletop.
“That is no reason to raise your voice,” Brioc Ffyr said, frowning at his friend.
Nox looked between them, sandwiched along the table of King Gwynter’s council. There’d been a heated debate in the church over the past hour, but little accomplished. The problems were many, but the answers were few. For the moment Charquae was safe. Even now, Parsha stalked the fields outside the walled city, keeping it hidden in plain sight. He had assured Nox all was well now, and the she-dragon wouldn’t return, but Nox alone fully trusted the poet dragon’s words.
Now the greatest concern loomed like a storm cloud over those assembled. How could the council assist the ailing army hundreds of miles away? Nox had the chance to paint a full picture for them an hour before, and when he sat, the silence of the vaulted chamber had been palpable. Doubtless, the army’s condition had worsened since Bayton. Doubtless, many had already died from exposure or worse. Did the army still exist?
No news had reached Charquae because of the she-dragon, and nothing would come now, as the city had vanished from the human eye. To send supplies from here would unveil the truth: Charquae still stood. Besides, the wagons were always waylaid.
There had to be another way. Nox thought of Parsha, but the dragon was protecting the city. If he left to aid the Winter Army, he couldn’t maintain the deception. Did that matter? If the army faded, Charquae would follow sooner or later. The Crow King would eventually see the truth.
“We must steal what the army needs,” piped up Towwen Stone, the scholarly friend of the king. He glanced at Towwen Brym, then Brioc, shrugging. “Charquae’s supplies are needed here, for we’ve no idea how long we must remain hidden. That leaves us only one alternative. The enemy has plenty of storehouses along the King’s Highway. Granaries dot the map from here to Crowwell and even near Londolin. I propose a small band of us leave Charquae, infiltrate one or more of these granaries under the guise of priests or soldiers of the Crow, and deliver them personally to the Winter Army. If we fly the Crow banner, bandits and loyalists won’t dare to plunder our wagons. It’s dangerous. Undoubtedly, we face death or worse if we’re caught. Nevertheless, we must do this, else we must surrender now and fail the true king of Simaerin. What say you, gentlemen?”
“One issue,” said Towwen Brym, raising a finger. “We don’t know where to deliver the stolen goods once we’ve got them. Assuming we live that long.”
“We know they’re heading south by one route or another. That’s enough to start.”
Brioc spoke up. “Where will we obtain armor or robes to disguise ourselves for the heist?”
“Here,” said Towwen Stone. “The Crow King’s soldiers must have left accoutrements behind when they abandoned the city. The Crow banner is easy enough to find. We have but to choose which granary to take from and begin our journey.”
Nox watched as the men around the table murmured assent. There were a few half-hearted protests, but everyone seemed to understand the stakes. This was the best option open to them.
Next the council pored over maps. Brioc tapped a fortress inked on the largest of the parchments. “Here. The Winter King will go here
.”
Another man scoffed. “You’re losing your wits, man. That’s Keep Talbethé. No one would go there.”
“But he must,” said Brioc. “If he doesn’t take that keep, he won’t reach Crowwell. The Order of Corvus has regained too much strength this past year. Should he pass the keep by and march to Crowwell, his army will be wiped from Simaerin before the spring thaw. Knowing this, he’ll make for the keep.”
“It’s suicide,” said Remien, shaking his head.
“Doesn’t matter. He must take it or fail.”
For a moment no one spoke. A voice broke the silence. “Are we doomed then? Was this all a dream?”
“Aye,” said Towwen Brym with some heat, “naught but a dream, but one worth striving for. Surely, it’s better to pursue such a dream than to live a nightmare. And if we fail? Why then, we fail with glory!”
“Not much glory in starving to death,” murmured a sullen-faced man down the table.
Towwen Brym turned on him, but before he could retort another man rose. “For my part,” the man said, voice clear and strong, “give me liberty or let me burn!”
“Well said, Henris!” cried Towwen Brym, slapping the table again.
As other voices thundered their approval, Nox’s spirits lifted. Though nothing in their situation had changed, surrounded by such brave, eloquent, determined men, Nox thought he might succeed at anything he tried—and the fight was worth whatever cost. If only Nathael could be here now to witness this historic moment. These men, few in number but vast in courage, were changing the very world.
Brioc Ffyr and the Towwens Brym and Stone took charge as the energy in the chamber lessened a margin or two. Choosing a course was one thing. Plotting it was something else. Any mention of Keep Talbethé had ceased, as though it had never come up. Even when referencing the army’s likely destination, only the land around the keep was mentioned. Nox considered the map as voices rose and fell around him. He turned to Remien, who sat in silence beside him.
“What about the Crow King?” asked Nox, frowning.
“What about him precisely, Nox, son of Hemm?”
“Well, if Master Ffyr can predict the Winter King’s plan to take Talbethé, surely the Crow King can too. Won’t he act?”
Remien shook his head. “No. While the Crow King finds King Gwynter a reckless youth, he would still never think him so foolhardy as that. Which must be part of the Winter King’s scheme: no one would see it coming.”
“But Master Ffyr sees it,” said Nox.
“Aye, but Brioc is as foolhardy as his liege—perhaps more so. Philosophers usually are.”
“Master Ffyr is a philosopher?” Nox glanced at the middle-aged mage with renewed admiration. “I thought he was only a printer.”
“Philosophers are often attached to a trade, lad,” said Remien, grinning. “Philosophizing of itself pays very little. They must find a way to fill their bellies, same as other men.”
Nox considered that. “What does he philosophize about?”
“Who knows? I can’t keep his thoughts straight.” Remien turned back to the maps, eyes darkening as they fell on the region of Talbethé. “Never mind cryptic thoughts and antics for now. Pray to Afallon, lad. Pray hard. Anything short of a miracle will be the end of our army, and if that happens, we’ll all burn just like Master Henris said.”
Lady Arianwen ren Targeth caught a snowflake in her palm and watched it melt, envious of its escape. She drew the curtains of the window shut and turned to the darkened bedchamber. The bed crouched like a giant beast waiting to snare her, but she moved there anyway and sat upon the feather mattress as she wiped her palm dry against her gown.
She didn’t bother to wipe her eyes. With a sigh, Arianwen fell back against the coverlets to stare into the shadows above the four-poster frame. Tears slid from her eyes to roll into her black hair.
“Let them fall,” she whispered, so softly she hardly heard herself.
“Who, my dear lady?”
She shot upright, eyes wide as her heart thundered in her chest. There, near the window. Shrouded in shadow.
“Your Majesty,” she murmured, bowing her head.
“Let who fall?” asked the Crow King in silken tones, so gentle, so kind.
She let every emotion slip from her face. Let them melt like that tiny snowflake. He must see nothing of her heart. “No one, sire. I was speaking of the snow outside.”
“Ah.” He reached a hand out and drew aside the curtains to let in a sliver of gray light. “Charquae is fallen, my lady?”
Arianwen hesitated a heartbeat. “Yes, my lord. So the dragon said.”
“You’ve done well. I told your intended so before he left.”
Arianwen resisted a frown. “You sent Sir Windsur away?”
“Just so. He will join Sir Bened in his quest to thwart the Winter King at Keep Talbethé.”
“I see.” She folded her hands into her lap and stayed as still as possible.
“Aren’t you pleased? Both suitors are quite in earnest to win you.”
“Hasn’t one suitor already won my hand?” asked Arianwen in icy tones.
“So he believes, but war is an ugly affair, my lady. So many noble souls fall upon the field.” A smile laced the Crow King’s voice. “So Sir Bened hopes. Perhaps they will duel one another before the end. Which shall be the victor, I wonder? Which would you bestow your favor upon?”
She turned her head away. “Does my favor matter, Your Majesty?”
“Not really. I was merely curious.”
Muted footsteps approached the bed. She stiffened but remained where she sat. Where could she run?
Long fingers brushed her cheek. “Thou art fair, Arianwen,” whispered the king, “and cold as the northern climes of Fraelin. I shall break your spirit yet.” The hand retreated, and the king drew back.
Arianwen turned her eyes to the looming figure. “What are you waiting for? Why have you not harmed me?”
Faint laughter came as a song. “You think I desire your body? Nay, lady fair. I am not some brute in search of pleasure. My needs, my goals, are not so petty as man’s. I keep you here for other reasons. My own reasons. I need not elucidate. All you need know is that you shall never leave. Is that not enough?”
She stared at the shadows of his face. For one year, one dreadful year, she had waited here, fearing the time he would come to her bed and rob her of her virtue—but if not that, what could he want? What could she possibly provide?
She opened her mouth, perhaps to beg, perhaps to scream in defiance, but then she shut it. What was the point in asking? He wouldn’t say. They both knew as much. He intended to make her suffer, that much she knew already. Bowing her head, she listened to his footsteps fade away. If he left by the door, she heard nothing of its opening or shutting. At last she looked up and had the room once more to herself. For a moment more she didn’t move. Then she leaned forward and pressed her hands to her face.
She choked on a sob. “Blessed Afallon! Why?”
Chapter 20
“Gwynter, may I ask you something?”
Gwyn rolled over in his bedding, ignoring the aches in his bones, and caught the light of his brother’s eyes in the predawn glow. The dilapidated floorboards of the shed moaned beneath Gwyn as he shifted. Light snaked in through termite holes in the eastward wall, illuminating the slumbering lumps huddled beneath thin bedding. No one else stirred apart from Lawen who lay beside him. Kive roamed somewhere outside, probably hunting.
“What is it?” Gwyn whispered.
“We both know General Haratin is a snake. Even Kive would agree, despite his preference for rat flesh. Your council knows it too. So why did you tell him about Talbethé at all, especially if you intended to let him leave? I’d bet 1,000 denn he’s going to tell the Crow King. Anything to elevate himself.”
Gwyn smiled grimly. “Aye, that he would, though he’s a fool if he thinks the Crow King will reward him after all he’s done.” He pulled his blanket closer. “He is
a snake, but I counted on that.”
Lawen’s brow wrinkled. “You played him. How? The Crow King will send his forces here.”
“Some, possibly. But I doubt he’ll supply many. He’ll react, for he’s underestimated our strength twice already, and won’t do so again; but he won’t weaken Crowwell’s defenses until he’s certain we’re doing as Haratin reports. Little doubts will rest in the king’s head: Was Haratin fooled? Does the Winter Army intend to march straight for Crowwell and take the city while the Crow protects the Order of Corvus?”
“All right. So, he’ll not send his entire army to wipe us out. But why do you want the Crow King to know?”
“Because in his doubt, he’ll send his best man to thwart us if we strike. And if we remove the Crow’s right hand, we’ll stand a better chance overall. The Crow King will expect us to besiege the keep, and his right hand will aim to destroy us openly; thus, his guard will be raised against an outside assault. Neither will expect our infiltration, for the keep is impenetrable. Ask anyone.”
“It’s a dangerous ploy, Gwyn.”
“Yes, ‘tis.” Gwyn rolled onto his back and studied the cobweb-cloaked ceiling. “But necessary. You say you killed Lord Traycen in the True Wood.”
“Aye.”
“But he appears yet to live. Why? Does some impostor wear his face? Or does the Crow King protect his own especially?”
The floorboards creaked as Lawen sat up to stare down at Gwyn. “You want to lure the Crow King.”
Gwyn met his brother’s eyes and said nothing.
“That’s madness,” Lawen hissed. “If the king comes—”
“Sir Bened came to me with the idea, and I agreed with him. I want to end this at Talbethé if I can, Lawen. I don’t want to storm the capital. Our army may not last until spring as it is.” His chest constricted and Gwyn rolled to one side as coughs ripped through his throat. The fit lasted until his eyes streamed with tears. Lawen’s hand rested against his shoulder, soothing.
The Complete Duology Page 41
