by Ellyn, Court
Gantley bowed an exit.
“I’ve sent him to tell Rance.” The girl paused at the windows to open one of the shutters before returning to the bedside chair. She moved lithe and quick in snug riding leathers and a white lace-up shirt. “He’s been so worried. But he had to get sleep sometime. He was practically dead on his feet. He’ll be sorry he missed you waking up.”
How did this stranger know Rance, and so well that she called him by name?
“Wait,” Arryk croaked. “You … it was you. You were there. We danced.”
The girl nodded and raised her chin. “Carah of the Swiftblade, Your Majesty.”
“Ah, that’s right. The War Commander’s daughter.” The Imperial, yes. A gesture of peace. Or so he had hoped.
“I wondered how much you’d remember.”
“I remember jumping into a moat. I remember fearing I was going to bleed to death. Nothing after that. I passed out?”
The girl hesitated, fingers fidgeting, mouth trying to shape the right words. “Well, not exactly, sire. But everything’s all right now and—”
Arryk’s hand lashed out, caught her by the wrist. She gasped and went rigid with fear. “I’m an invalid. Not a child or a dotard.”
After he released her it took her some moments to recover. That casual familiarity in the touch of her eyes vanished. He would feel sorry for it later, but right now he needed answers. She cleared her throat and said, “You died, sire. And then—”
“Died?” He struggled to sit up, but his right side screamed a protest. He fell back into the pile of sweaty pillows.
“I didn’t know what to do, so I brought you back. I’m avedra. Healing is my gift.”
Died? It was all too much. He stared up at the knots in the ceiling and pressed a hand to the ache in his side. He remembered the wound, the dark blood seeping through his fingers, the desperate hope that it wasn’t as bad as it looked.
“Is it hurting, sire?” Carah asked. “I can get you poppy wine.”
Arryk shook his head, dared to peek under the covers. There wasn’t a stitch of binding around the wound, though the sheets smelled strongly of ointments. A two-inch-long purple scar was surrounded by ugly bruises. Such a puncture ought to take weeks and weeks to heal, if a man survived it at all. “How long was I out?”
She grimaced. “Seven days? Well, you see, we made sure you slept the whole journey, for the pain. We arrived only yesterday.”
He peeked again, poked the scar with his finger. “Seven days, but it’s already healed.”
Carah smiled smugly. “We still have some work to do. You had a low fever this morning, which means there’s still a bit of infection, and we’ll have those bruises gone in a couple of days. Seems I’m waging war against a sour old herbalist who insists his way is best.”
He laid back, staring at her, dumbfounded. “Avedra…. You weren’t kidding.” The cobwebs were clearing from his head nicely now. “Six days journey, so where…?” A small sweep of his hand took in the whole room.
“This is Drenéleth, sire. It’s a small holding on the edge of my father’s lands, near the northern border of Aralorr.”
Dread made him lightheaded all over again. “Am I a prisoner?”
“Oh, no, no, sire. We’re all of us in hiding here. Eliad’s people are hurrying to fortify it. That’s the hammering you hear. Valryk is my cousin, you know, but it didn’t matter. He tried to kill all of us.” How lost she looked, how soulful those large blue eyes, as she gazed back at the horror.
“How many of my people got out?”
When she looked up at him, a tear rolled down her cheek. “Five Mantles, Lady Athmar, her nephew, and my uncle mentioned a Lord Haezeldale.”
“Johf, yes, good.” Bhodryk’s maternal uncle. Arryk waited for her to go on, but she didn’t. “That’s all?”
She nodded feebly.
Arryk turned away, covered his face with his hand. He was going to sob and be sick at the same time, and this lovely girl was going to see. He heard her get up and pour water into a cup. She lifted his hand, put the cup into it, then pried herself between him and the pillows to help him sit up. It wasn’t water in the cup, but golden liquor. Good girl. Arryk gulped it, but the warm feeling spreading through his veins didn’t fill the gaping hole that the truth inflicted. “I led them to Bramoran. They told me … Uncle Raed begged me not to come. Thank the Mother Laral was safe at home.”
Carah pried herself free again, stacked more pillows behind his back and took the empty cup back to the sideboard. “Laral spoke of little but you when he visited last autumn. He said he wished you could come elk hunting here. Ironic, don’t you think? He should arrive soon. My uncle sent for him this morning.”
Yes, that was a comfort. Visions of bloodshed rushed in. Had he seen his aunt, Lady Arwythe, fall? Or was that a false memory? King Ha’el had rolled off the dais with a gout of blood spewing from his throat. He remembered that well enough. Thunderclaps, founts of white fire and bodies being hurled through the air. Just like in the accounts of Father’s war.
“Your uncle,” he said. “The War Commander’s brother? Thorn Kingshield. He was at Bramoran, too?”
Carah nodded, sank into the chair. She was smiling affectionately at mention of him. Of course she would. Maybe she didn’t know of the things he had done. And if she did? Thorn Kingshield had done those things to Fierans, so what did it matter? “We couldn’t have escaped without him,” she said.
“I shall have to thank him.” Arryk decided the statement sounded hollow, so he changed the subject. “And you. I’m indebted.”
“Yes, you are.” It wasn’t the response a lady was supposed to offer. “I hope saving your life buys your friendship, and not only for myself.”
Maybe she wasn’t as naïve as he had suspected. After Bramoran how could she be? “I’ll have another drink, if you don’t mind.”
She hopped up, eager to please. Her gestures, her stride were as graceful as a dancer’s. She ought not wear those riding leathers. Didn’t she know the effect those legs might have on a man? If Arryk weren’t so distraught over the loss of his people, he might indulge his eyes, but he was too upset to care.
She approached with the cup. “Last one. You need water and food.”
Though hunger had wakened him, sorrow filled his belly now. And old resentment. Kingshield under this very roof. “Tell me, is it true you avedrin can hear unspoken words?” He glanced up at her, suspicion unmasked. “When we danced were you spying on my mind?”
A blush flared in her cheeks. He might as well have called her a two-copper whore as scandalized as she looked. “I didn’t dare! It’s frightening enough to know what’s going on in a regular man’s mind. I have no desire to know what’s happening in a king’s.”
Arryk coughed out a chuckle, dry and bitter. “You would probably be disappointed.”
She crossed her arms. “You mean, a king thinks like any other man?”
“All too often.” His belly complained loudly.
Carah’s eyebrows darted up. “He hungers, too.” She reached for the bell rope.
Voices filled the corridor, arguments, pleas. It was a relief to hear Rance barking orders.
“Shall I leave you alone with them?” Carah asked, hurrying for the door. “Don’t tire yourself, sire. I’ll return with a tray or two.”
He raised a hand before she flung open the door, bidding her wait. “Afterward, I’ll have an audience with your uncle.” Arryk hoped he was up for it. He wanted to look into the eyes of the man who killed his father.
~~~~
The mood of the upper floor had changed markedly. The two Mantles outside the king’s door stopped Thorn as he approached, raised his arms for him and patted him down. Pockets and sleeves, boot cuffs and hair, their fingers probed them all. “Dagger and sword, sir,” commanded the one named Haekym. He was a grizzled old knight who seemed to enjoy knocking Thorn about a bit.
“You want my hands as well?” Thorn asked, but the Mantles d
idn’t think that was funny. Back to being typical humorless sentinels now that the boss was watching, eh? Thorn unbuckled his sword belt and handed it off to Dirk, a pup of a soldier with big apprehensive eyes. Thorn had a couple more japes in mind, like ‘Lady Drona gave you some tips, didn’t she?’ and ‘To think, yesterday we were such good friends,’ but he decided to keep them to himself. He hoped this wouldn’t take long. There were still plenty of falcons to subdue and send off.
Haekym opened the door. Putting on his most formal face, Thorn stepped in and heard voices in the adjoining parlor. The White Falcon was arguing with his lieutenant. “No! … speak with him alone. … Because I have to know. Stand watch over there, then, but don’t interfere.”
Rance straightened as Thorn entered, cast him an awkward half-grin and backed from the parlor. Arryk stood at the windows watching the highlanders plant another stake on the lawn. Gruff shouts from the laborers, the bellows of oxen, and the thunk of axes drifted through the window with a cool afternoon breeze. The palisade might be finished as early as tomorrow. Clans were pouring from the mountain valleys with their cattle and weapons. The river plain between the lodge and the Avidan ford filled with their tents, campfires, and makeshift paddocks. Thorn had decided that the highlanders responded so well to Eliad because he was as rowdy and free-spirited as they. He caroused with them, hunted with them, drank with them, and thought highly of their daughters. When he called for them, they hadn’t hesitated.
Thorn doubted the White Falcon had summoned him to discuss the locals, however. One of Eliad’s robes fit the king well, this one with a collar of lush beaver fur. Ought Thorn consider it an insult that the king didn’t turn to greet him? “It would please me for you not to read my mind,” Arryk said instead.
Earned his disfavor already, and Thorn hadn’t even had time to bow. He supposed he shouldn’t expect the White Falcon to be in a generous mood. Carah explained to him how Arryk reacted when he heard about the death toll. “As you wish, Your Majesty. Doing so would go against my principles anyway.”
“Would it?” Skepticism oozed from the question. “I sent for you half an hour ago.”
Thorn had to strain to hear the softly spoken words. Something dangerous in that quiet voice. “I was busy with a bird, sire. I cannot simply break the connection. I rushed it, though. The message will likely go astray.”
“Message?”
“For my aunt at Wyramor, telling her that her husband, daughter, and grandson are dead.”
“Your family, Wyramor, yes...” After a long silence, Arryk said, “You may approach.”
Eating glass sounded like a better idea. Drawing near the window, Thorn saw that Arryk wasn’t watching the builders after all. His eyes clung to some indistinct place between the windowpane and his guest. Every muscle was taut, and hostility pulsed from him like a heartbeat. How still he stood, listening, sensing, gauging. Thorn conducted a quick inspection himself, to make sure the king’s hands were empty. “The Lady Carah says I have you to thank for our escape,” he said, words clipped.
Thorn let out a breath, feeling the need to breathe for both of them. “If I had acted sooner, more might have gotten out.”
Arryk drew himself up, raised his chin a fraction. Was this the wrong answer? Thorn suspected that his response, whatever it was, mattered not at all. At last Arryk seemed to gather some resolve and turned to face his guest. Green eyes pinned Thorn and conducted a cold, fierce scrutiny, like razors hoping for a slip and a taste of blood. Thorn remembered those eyes. Looking at them was like looking at a ghost. He tried to hold the gaze but failed. Unexpected, being disarmed so easily.
Arryk’s glance didn’t waver. “You’re not what I expected.”
Thorn’s mouth was dry as dust. “I hear that often lately, sire. People seem to expect sparks of lightning dancing about my fingertips, a steed breathing fire, and a storm spinning in my wake. But I’m the same awkward scholar I ever was.”
“Is that so?”
“I am sorry that I offend Your Majesty.”
“If you offend me, it is not because you lack sparks of lightning, Thorn Kingshield.” He turned away abruptly, strode for the breakfast table, and poured himself a cup of tea with the aggression of a lance striking a shield. His hands trembled, and the clattering of the silver and porcelain sounded like accusations. He poured a second cup and gestured for his guest to take a seat. Thorn dared not refuse, though he could’ve done with something stronger. He eased into the chair across from the White Falcon, helped himself to the milk, stirred, sipped, and grimaced. Lukewarm and bitter. He should have tossed the bird sooner. He would have hot tea to ease his headache at least.
Arryk watched him coolly over the rim of his own cup, but did not drink. “Tell me about my father.”
The request came so suddenly that Thorn half-choked. He threw his arm over his mouth until he recovered. He might’ve known. Yes, Arryk had every reason to loathe his guest. “Tell you what, sire? You knew him better than I.”
“Undoubtedly. But I wasn’t there when he died.” He set aside his cup. “What if I told you I put Ghost Root in that tea.”
A chill slithered across Thorn’s shoulders and down into his gut. He eyed the contents of his cup, remembering a battle in an alleyway, little knives pricking his shoulder, pain like shards of steel paralyzing his muscles, Zellel whispering in his ear, and sudden blindness before oblivion. He remembered carefully selecting a vial of purple crystal, too.
In one great gulp he swallowed the rest of the tea. “Then I would say, ‘well-deserved’.”
“The accounts are true, then.”
“Well, that depends on who’s telling them, doesn’t it?” Thorn was sure he had been mercilessly vilified south of the Bryna.
“I’ll hear your side.” Arryk’s eyes narrowed, as if daring Thorn to forbid him the details.
“Gracious of you. But is this something you need to hear right now?”
“I’ve waited twenty years to hear it, and I don’t have anywhere else to be.”
Thorn leaned back in the chair, releasing a heavy breath. “He had abandoned the field. Wasn’t really anything else he could do by then. His warlord was dead, his city invaded by vengeful dwarves. Brynduvh’s defenders were fleeing the walls. It was only a matter of hours before the dwarves broke into the palace, a matter of days before Rhorek’s armies arrived. I reached him first. I offered him a gift, and he chose to accept it. He was grateful in that stage of the game to still have a choice, though you may not believe me.”
“I don’t.”
“Come, come, sire, you don’t think his enemies would have allowed him to live? The dwarves had broken in. It was all I could do to convince them to wait until I’d spoken with your father.”
“Was it the dwarves who mutilated him?”
Thorn took offense to that. “That was a clean cut. And it was done at your father’s request. I don’t go around cutting off heads. I was sick after, though that will not comfort you. I was honor-bound to carry out the wishes of a dying man, and so I did, everything he wished.”
If the White Falcon hadn’t been pale before, he certainly was now, though his cheeks looked flushed. Was it fever or rage? “I will not believe you did him a kindness.”
Thorn nodded, mournful. “It was to you that I did the unkindness, sire, not him. We both lost our fathers to that war, and I am sorry for it.”
Too unsettled to sit still, Arryk shoved back his chair and returned to the window. Etiquette bid Thorn rise as well. He stood quietly behind his chair while Arryk waded through the information. “Your tale makes no sense, Kingshield. You helped an enemy escape the hands of your own king, your own brother’s armies? You’re either a traitor or a liar.”
“If those are my choices, then I must choose traitor.”
That struck the White Falcon off guard. He whirled and demanded, “Why? Why offer my father this choice? He might have been set free. He might have joined us at Éndaran. We might have sailed to Dorél to
live happily in exile.”
This was not a king speaking, but a brokenhearted little boy. “Yes, so many other futures that could have been and never will be. I offered him the poison because his dream had shattered around him, and all he had left was his dignity. Should I have let the dwarves strip him of that as well? I knew that pain, sire. I fled the field, too, and tried to die, but there was no one to help me. He appreciated having someone there at the end who understood him.”
Arryk sank onto the window seat, the certainty draining out of him.
“I told you I carried out all your father’s wishes, but that’s not true. He feared I would chase you down, your aunt and your brothers, and have done with the lot of you, but I swore to him that you would not be harmed, not by my hand or the hand of any Aralorri. ‘Trust’ was the word he used. ‘I must trust you with them,’ he said. So you see? I have failed in my promise to him, after all. At least my niece was able to save you.”
“I owe her a great debt.”
“Continue to be a wise and generous king, and the debt will be paid.”
“Continue? Am I wise? Am I generous? I don’t know. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Every man doubts, sire. Even your father. He said he feared his sons would remember him as a failure. Is that so?”
Arryk considered, making a long study of the rug under his feet, then shook his head.
“Good.” Thorn drifted to the window, peered out over the palisade toward the broad river valley and the tumbling cataracts of the Avidan. “I told him I would remember him as a man of vision. And so he was.”
How would the scribes and bards remember King Arryk? As the man who lost his kingdom to the mysterious realms beyond? Or as the king who won it back again? He sat quietly brooding for so long that Thorn wondered if he ought to take the silence for dismissal. “I lost his knives,” he said at last. All the hostility was gone. “His fighting knives, Raptor and Talon. They’re in my suite at Bramoran.”
