“Should we head down?” she asked now as Gwyn’s arm trembled against her shoulder.
“No. I’ll remain here until they’re all inside the walls.”
Together they waited, watched, while a freezing wind carried snow from the north. As the last contingent reached the gate, one of the bedraggled soldiers glanced up and his step faltered. Those around him paused and raised their eyes to find the Winter King upon the wall. Whispers seeped through the ranks, and then noise ascended. Cheers.
Cheers for their king who had conquered Keep Talbethé.
Gwyn bowed his head and closed his eyes. Nathaera smiled as she drew his arm tighter around her shoulders.
“They love you, Gwyn. They believe in you, just as I do.”
He said nothing. His eyes opened as the rattle of the closing portcullis filled the air, but he didn’t look down. Instead, his eyes searched the horizon. “Aluem is returning.”
Nathaera squinted against the midday sun for a long moment before she spotted what might be a galloping unicorn afar off. “I wonder where he’s been. Shall we head down to meet him?”
Gwyn nodded, and together they descended the stone stairs to the bailey proper. Assembled at the bottom step, Gwyn’s officers waited.
“Sire,” said Mershen, ahead of the others who all drew breath at once to speak. “We offer our heartfelt condolences on the parting of your brother. Lord ren Terare’s loss is keenly felt by all, and especially within the Order of Cygnus.”
Gwyn smiled weakly. “Thank you, my friend. How are the men?”
“Heartened, now we’ve taken Talbethé. Food and proper shelter will do them great good. I’ve already sent Aleteer and Rohkye to take stock of our pilfered provisions, and I’ll draw up a plan of rationing this very evening, if that’s agreeable to you.”
Gwyn nodded. “Yes. Quite. Thank you.”
Perhaps sensing Gwyn’s distance, the officers took their leave, and Nathaera helped Gwyn to the gate. In that moment, Aluem arrived at the portcullis.
‘Greetings, Gwynter and Nathaera,’ said the unicorn. ‘I bring good tidings from far and from near. Shall I enter?’
“Open the gate,” called Nathaera.
The portcullis lifted, and Aluem trotted in, hooves and horn glistening in the sunlight. He tossed his head, then rested his horn against Gwyn’s arm. They conversed, though Nathaera heard nothing of their exchange. She turned her eyes away to offer some privacy until Aluem took a step back.
His voice rose like a gale in her head. ‘You already know I traveled first to the Winter Army to deliver your word of the keep’s taking, Lady. From there I traveled southwest to Londolin.’
Nathaera furrowed her brow. “Why there? Hasn’t it fallen to the Crow King?”
‘Nay, for long before the Crow dispatched doom upon the Silver City, a force of light took up arms to defend it; and now that same force, led by Celin’Laen of the Ilidreth, marches to Talbethé to aid the Winter King of Simaerin.’
Gwyn’s shoulders squared. “Celin?” He laughed, a clear, bright sound. “Celin has come after all. Afallon be praised.”
‘He comes not alone, Gwynter. In company with his 300 bowmen rides a contingent of fifty Crowsmen, now defectors. Their leader is Cadogan ren Silverard.’
Gwyn tensed. Nathaera glanced at his face to find wonder and horror in tandem in his eyes. “Cadogan, defecting? Impossible.”
Aluem said nothing, but watched Gwyn with steadfast, prismatic eyes.
Gwyn wrestled with himself. The storm in his eyes attested to it. For a long moment he stood silent, brooding, brow drawn. At last he inhaled and nodded. “I gave to Bened Arnnor a chance he did not deserve. That chance cost my brother his life. It’s possible Cadogan comes at the Crow King’s behest to fool me once again, yet if I cannot take a man at his word, what manner of creature am I? I don’t trust Cadogan, but if Celin does, I can trust his word, and must. But Afallon help the next man who calls me friend as he spears me through. My fury will not be soon sated.”
“Believe me,” said Nathaera, catching his eye. “Nor will mine.”
Chapter 25
Rindermarr Lorric had welcomed Nathael with open arms. More than that, he’d supplied him with priest robes to wear as he roamed the streets seeking information.
For days now, all anyone could talk about was Talbethé. Was it true the keep had fallen? Was the Crow King dead? Had the Winter Army been swallowed up by the wrath of Talbethé’s restless spirits? Had Afallon struck them down?
This morning, Crow Castle issued a proclamation reassuring the frightened citizens. The Crow King had dealt the traitor and his army a heavy blow, possibly a decisive one. There was nothing to fear.
Nathael wasn’t convinced. Neither was the population of Crowwell. Foremost among the rumors were eyewitness accounts claiming Bened Arnnor had been spotted fleeing into Crowwell, having been discovered as a spy and driven from the conquered keep. The wrath of the Winter King had followed him as a hound upon the heels of a flagging fox, they said, and seemed content with the idea. At first, Nathael couldn’t understand why. Shouldn’t they consider Bened Arnnor a hero?
He listened more closely to discover the why of their mockery. It soon became apparent Bened Arnnor was no more loved than the Crow King himself, who inspired fear and even awe, but loyalty bred of such was a fickle thing. Many of Crowwell’s citizens were ardent loyalists; Crowsmen through and through. Indeed, most of the royal city hated Gwynter ren Terare ren Wintervale with a burning fervor. But others appeared to fancy the idea of shifting power.
“Perhaps a bitter winter’s what Simaerin needs on the heels of a blistering heat,” one merchant had remarked in the marketplace. Others echoed the sentiment. The context was clear, for little else besides war was spoken of these days. Even at social functions, where Nathael attended as Rindermarr’s acolyte, the subject of civil upheaval came up.
The city split in two. Loyalists tended to be wealthy, but even among them were those whose families had suffered from the Crow King’s massacre of mages. Where once those families had rejoiced at the unholy of their number being purged, now it was common knowledge that the Crow King used magic, had his own mage force of arms, and only eliminated those he deemed worthless to his service.
“He sacrificed the whole of them. Every mage of Corvus at Talbethé was murdered, but it still couldn’t kill the Winter King.”
Nathael paused at a refreshment table and glanced toward the source of that statement. As dusk fell over Crowwell, Nathael had joined Rindermarr at a noble house for a winter dance. Now, as Nathael wandered about, he picked up tidbits of conversation, most of them political. A well-dressed nobleman stood in the darkest corner of the ballroom, and with him stood another, younger man in apparel as grand. Drinks idled in their hands, untouched. Nathael recognized the older of the two: Lord Penden ren Targeth, father of the much talked about Lady Arianwen.
“Are you certain, my lord?” asked the younger man, incredulous.
“Not entirely. I tried to confirm it with Arnnor, but the tight-lipped brute finds himself my superior these days, though he ran from the field as a coward.”
“Has the Crow King promised her to him yet?”
“Nothing official,” said Lord ren Targeth with a sigh. “The better question, Sir Huwin, is, shall the king give her in marriage, or does he desire her for himself?”
The stringed instruments faded away as a dance ended. The lords glanced toward the floor, conversation dying with the music. Applause ensued, and Nathael caught up a pastry and moved on before they noticed him eavesdropping.
House Hithren hosted tonight’s ball, in honor of its heir’s coming of age. The boy led each dance with such solemnity, a stranger might mistake the event as a wake rather than a celebration, despite the colors and music. Young Lord ren Hithren was a plump, miserable soul, quite Nox’s opposite in disposition, though his rotund form put Nathael in mind of his absent friend. Homesickness gripped Nathael, and he turned from the dance
floor as the ballroom doors opened to admit a latecomer.
Nathael had never seen Sir Bened Arnnor before, but word of him had been so frequent, the sight of the man was strangely familiar. He was a grim, imposing figure, with dark hair that framed his face and an ill-favored light in his eyes. An almost supernatural aura enveloped him, eerie as a boneyard. The Crow’s touch, Nathael thought with a shudder, as though tendrils of blackest hues writhed and strangled the knight’s limbs. If Bened Arnnor had once been an honorable knight of Simaerin, sworn to its throne and people, he’d now transformed into a creature, a slave to the will of the Crow King, shackled and broken. A marionette on hellish strings.
The music had struck up again, but it died upon the knight’s entrance, and the crowds parted to give him a clear path to the head of the grand chamber. Bened Arnnor strode to the heir of Hithren, whose eyes widened as the man approached.
The heir lifted his pudgy hands to shield himself. “My lord. S-Sir Knight. You needn’t—”
The knight drew his sword. With a swift, steady lunge, he pierced the heir’s breast. Withdrew. The heir fell amid screams as the crowds pushed back.
Bened Arnnor wiped his blade on the heir’s clothes, then swept a glance around the room. Fierce. Challenging. “Are there any other ambitious fools who would dare to make an offer for my lady’s hand? Speak now, so I may quicken your death.”
No one dared move. Nathael studied the knight, fists clenched. Bened Arnnor’s eyes met his. Nathael knew he should look away. He should cower as the others. But a fire seethed within him, and he held firm against the knight’s dark scowl.
“You,” Bened Arnnor said, pointing his finger at Nathael. “You’re not a priest.”
Nathael nodded. “True, sir. I am an acolyte merely.”
“Liar.” The knight strode toward him, the crowd shifting to give him space. Across the room, Rindermarr pushed his way through the lords and ladies to come to Nathael’s aid. Bened reached him first. “I know your face. I read its message clearly. You’re a traitor. You’ve sworn service to the Winter King and have come to spy on Crowwell.”
Nathael started. He’d not seen Bened Arnnor before this moment. How could the knight know him? How could he guess Nathael’s purpose? Shaking his head, Nathael tried to think. “Nay, sir. You accuse me unjustly.”
“My lord,” called out Rindermarr, and his voice divided the crowd to give him passage. The priest hurried forward. “Forgive me, my lord, but this is my acolyte. If you have a grievance against him, address me and I shall see it righted.”
Bened’s scowl deepened. “You’re the priest who once advocated for the Winter King at trial. Do you think to aid another traitor now?”
Rindermarr bristled. “Your words are hard, sir. I advocated for a boy not yet come of age. He was no traitor then.”
“He used magic outside the law.”
“An offense for which the king acquitted him, as I recall,” said Rindermarr.
“Do you still defend him?” Bened’s sword hand twitched upward.
Rindermarr glanced at the blade, then met Bened’s eyes. “I’m defending my acolyte. Nothing else.”
“Your acolyte is a traitor to the rightful king of Simaerin.”
“Is this a trial now, sir?” asked the priest. “I see no judge and no committee to weigh his actions.”
“You wish for a trial?” asked Bened. A smile crept upon his lips. “Very well. I shall present him before the Crow King and see what comes.”
Rindermarr sucked in a breath. “There’s no need of anything so drastic. The church shall—”
“The church is compromised. Priests at Londolin aided the Ilidreth. Be grateful we don’t put you all on trial. Stand aside now, Rindermarr Lorric, and allow me to take the young man to await the king’s justice.”
Rindermarr’s eyes flicked to Nathael, who understood well what it would mean to go with this man. He wouldn’t survive long enough to stand trial. Nathael dropped his pastry and fled toward the door, pressing through the befuddled nobility. No one tried to stop him, though he heard Bened bark the command.
He rushed out into the corridor, sprinted along the flagstones, and darted into a side passage to leap from a window and land in the thorny rosebushes beneath. Arms and legs stinging, he heard voices ring out from within. Nathael crept through the bushes and started for the gates of the estate. He pulled the cowl of his robes over his head. No one at the entrance stopped him. He slipped into the milling crowds of the street beyond House Hithren and disappeared in the growing night.
Arianwen glanced toward the door as it pushed open, heart staggering. She expected to find the Crow King standing in the entrance, but instead she met the dark gaze of another dread specter.
Struggling to keep her expression smooth, she curtsied. “Sir Bened.”
He entered, clutching a burlap sack in one gloved hand. He slung the sack to drop it at her feet. She peered down. It was stained with blood.
“Whose head do you bring me today, Sir Knight?” Already he’d brought the severed head of Windsur ren Cloven. What poor fool joined the black knight’s collection now?
“The heir of Hithren,” answered Bened. “He sent the Crow King an offer to take you in marriage.”
“Is such an offer now a crime?” she asked, tone sharp as an icicle.
“When that offer is for you, yes. None but I shall possess you, Arianwen. You’re the loveliest maid in Simaerin, and thus best suited to be the wife of the Crow King’s righthand man.”
She lifted her gaze from the soiled sack. “I believe Lord ren Lotelon is already married, sir.”
“Traycen is dead,” Bened said, a cruel smile on his lips. “He died at Talbethé by the Winter King’s hand. I now fill the vacancy, as the Crow King has long promised.”
“So,” said Arianwen, “at long last the ever-underestimated knight claims glory for himself, but at what expense? You think the people will love you, as unfeeling as you are? Do you think the Crow King will do more than use you as a pawn in his conquest of the world? Does glory taste as well as you dreamed, Sir Knight?”
Bened marched forward and caught her wrist to pull her close. “You shall taste well enough, my lady. You are my reward.”
“I will die first, sir.”
Bened laughed, a dark, bitter sound. “You think he’ll let you? The Crow King holds you captive, Arianwen, and none escape him.”
“The Winter King did,” she whispered, and winced as his grip on her wrist tightened.
“The Winter King is all but crushed. His heart is broken, and fever racks his body. He won’t survive both assaults at once.”
“You mustn’t measure a man against your own strength,” said Arianwen, pulling against him. “You might find yourself lacking much.”
His smile deepened, and he caught her chin, pressed his hand to her back, and forced his lips over hers. She wrenched against him, but his grip held. Dropping her arms, she merely stood there, unmoving, unyielding, cold as a statue made of ice. She would not respond to his insistence; she would give him nothing at all.
He drew back. Sneered. “You think yourself superior to me, but I will show you which is the master before long.” He struck her face, and she stumbled sideways as lights flashed against her eyes. Warm blood trickled from her lips. She straightened and stared at him, frigid.
He laughed, stooped to claim the bloody sack from the floor, and tramped from the room.
Chapter 26
The clouds over Talbethé swelled, but they carried no snow or rain. Sunlight glanced through them now and then, coloring the world in shades of gold and gray. Gwyn stood upon the outer wall facing west to watch the approaching wagons and Ilidreth cavalry. The Swan banner billowed in the chill wind, heartening, even as Gwyn contemplated his torn emotions. Coming along with the wagons, bedecked in the armor and heraldry of the Crow King, rode Cadogan ren Silverard.
Lawen had respected his commanding officer in bygone days, before the man had threatened him into
performing acts of murder and cruelty. Gwyn hadn’t known until recently about the threat against his own life; how as a lad he might have died had Lawen not agreed to execute child mages and feed the remains of Ilidreth prisoners to others in bondage.
A vise clutched Gwyn’s heart, searing it, as his breath caught and strained. He slumped against the nearest merlon, vision foggy with tears. The white world beyond the keep gained focus as he blinked away the wet haze.
“Afallon, lend me strength,” he whispered through a sob. “Lawen, sustain me. I must go on without you.”
He pushed away from the merlon as a horn sounded from the watchtower. The gate rumbled open.
He drew a breath and inched his way to the stairs along the wall. He’d regained a little of his strength, but it would be some time yet before he trusted his legs to keep him upright over distances. Even now, approaching the bottom of the stairs, his limbs trembled with fatigue and he stumbled twice. Once upon solid ground, he leaned against the stone wall to catch his breath, and looked to the gate as the first wagons rolled in. General Cadogan rode beside them. The man’s eyes swept across the bailey, appraising every detail, from the snow-crusted flagstones and grand towers and battlements, to the ragged Unicorn banner limping against the wind, to the barefoot, ill-garbed soldiers stationed at various doorways, and Gwyn, who must look beleaguered and sickly, for he was certainly both. Cadogan’s eyes lingered on him; he inclined his head.
Gwyn stared back, unmoving, suspicions screaming in his mind. Don’t trust this man. Don’t do it, fool.
The Complete Duology Page 45
