by K. C. Julius
After tossing the scowling woman a few pennies, Borne plucked several grapes from Cole’s hand. “When are you going to learn to bring your own purse with you when we go out?” he complained, attempted a censorious look.
He was sure it didn’t come off all that convincingly, because Cole knew as well as he did that Borne’s coins were themselves a handsome allowance from Lord Heptorious. Borne was in Drinnkastel due only to the earl’s generosity, in exchange for keeping an eye on Windend’s heir. As a result, both of them were receiving tutelage from the realm’s finest scholars and training at arms with seasoned warriors. It was, in truth, the opportunity of a lifetime.
Borne was still uneasy about posing as Lord Heptorious’s nephew, but as the earl had assured him, not a soul had challenged his story. Still, it rankled to be assumed a bastard when in fact he was the son of landed farmers, but then again, he wouldn’t have been eligible to compete in the tournament otherwise. All told, having to present a revised version of his background was a minor drawback in comparison to the benefits this deception reaped.
Borne and Cole arrived at the training ground to discover the earl of Windend himself awaiting them. He had recently arrived for the Twyrn and had come to the yard to see his son in action. Borne stood at the old knight’s side as a swordmaster put Cole through his paces.
“He’s turning into quite the swordsman,” said Lord Heptorious with approval.
“He is indeed, sir. He’s been hard at it these past weeks.”
“Thanks to you, no doubt,” said the earl, clapping his ward on the back.
“The credit is Cole’s, my lord. He’d have made a fine showing in the melee for Branley Tor.”
And so might have I, thought Borne ruefully, if that sniper’s arrow hadn’t been loosed at the final joust.
At least a death had been averted that day. But had the High King not been doubled over by a fit of coughing, and had Maura not bent to assist him, the treasonous arrow would likely have found the mark for whom it was intended. Instead Lord Eaton was struck, and while the wound would require time to heal, he would survive his injury.
Unsurprisingly, the attack brought an abrupt end to the jousts. Panicking spectators surged from the tourney grounds even as the judge, hurriedly declaring a draw, awarded the golden wand to Borne and the ruby to Roth. Soon thereafter it was announced that the melee had been canceled altogether.
At the time, Borne had been too distracted to consider how he felt about this. His only concern had been for Maura, who had been swiftly ushered under guard from the tourney grounds, along with the king. As soon as Borne returned to his rooms at Sir Jurrien’s, he sent a messenger to ask after her, and to his surprise, the servant returned along with a maid bearing a note, written in a fine hand, requesting he come at once to the castle.
“Is Lady Maura in good health?” he asked the maid.
“I believe her to be, m’lord,” she replied coolly, eyeing the untidy lodging with a hint of disdain.
Across the room, Cole gave a low whistle. “You’ve been invited to her rooms in the royal residence?” he said, raising his eyebrows suggestively.
The maid scowled, and Borne gave Cole a quelling look. “I’ll join you forthwith,” he said to the woman, who wasted no time in making her exit.
“Why is this village girl being housed at the castle anyway?” Cole asked.
Borne pulled on his boots. “Maura has been acknowledged to be of the blood, in case you haven’t been paying attention to the prominence our king is affording her. It certainly hasn’t escaped the attention of your revered Lord Roth.”
“What do you mean by that?” Cole demanded.
“Only that Roth is obviously paying court to Maura. Perhaps he considers her an alternative route to the Einhorn Throne, should Urlion fail to name him as heir.”
Cole glowered. “Lord Roth would never be so conniving! He’s a man of honor. Our High King is a fool not to acknowledge him.”
“Is that what Roth thinks?”
“No, it’s what I think. Roth only confided in me that he wishes he could get to know his father before the old man makes the Leap. In any case, it’s Lady Maura who would benefit from a connection to the Nelvor heir. She’s the daughter of a lapin farmer!” Cole got to his feet and snatched up his cloak in a huff. “But perhaps you feel the need to speak ill of Roth because you fear him as a rival.”
“For whose affections?”
“You know bloody well whose—Maura’s!”
And before Borne could deny this ludicrous accusation, Cole stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.
* * *
Borne tried to laugh off his friend’s charge, but it rankled him all the same. He’d barely given the girl a moment’s thought, not since he’d learned she was alive. It was true he’d looked for her at the joust—and he had to admit that once he’d seen her, he’d been reminded how attractive she was, in a way that was different from other women. But her decidedly cool manner on the tourney grounds had been a clear indication that she still bore him a grudge, and she’d been no warmer when he returned Leif to her table.
Which made this invitation to the castle all the more mystifying.
Stepping out of the carriage in which he’d accompanied the disapproving maid, he found himself in an inner courtyard of the castle. The sky above blazed with crimson fire, and purple shadows had begun to douse the last of the lingering light.
The woman led him in silence down a series of dim corridors to a hallway where the sconces lit the sightless eyes of the Drinnkastel royals of yore. If Borne had his bearings correct, they had arrived at the west wing of the castle without passing another living soul.
The maid stopped before a door and received a muted permission in response to her gentle tap. With a haughty sniff, she stepped aside for Borne to enter.
The chamber within was hung with rich brocades, and though it appeared to be empty, Borne had the distinct impression of being observed. He stood still in the center of the room, suppressing a smile. If Lady Maura wanted to toy with him, he too could play.
A whisper of movement drew his attention to the casement window, where a figure stood silhouetted. For a moment, Maura lingered there in shadow. Then she stepped into the light. She was wearing a gown of fine lawn, and her sun-streaked hair fell in a loose cloud over her shoulders.
“I thank you for coming,” she said, then offered her hand.
Borne bent to brush it with his lips, then rose from his salute and met the girl’s celestial gaze. Realizing he was still holding her slender fingers captive in his own, he quickly released them.
“To what do I owe the honor of this invitation, my lady?”
“Please,” she said, gesturing to a chair, “let’s not pretend in private company. You know as well as I do I’m not deserving of that title.”
“The High King himself has conferred it on you,” Borne said. But upon seeing her frown—her nose wrinkling charmingly as she did so—he added, “How would you have me address you?”
“By my name. Although I’ve learned I can no longer go by Trok.”
“Because you discovered your father was Prince Storn? It’s true then?”
“According to my unscrupulous Lurker mother,” Maura replied crisply, with a hint of defiance. “Of course, you knew about that too, didn’t you, because of my…”
She stopped herself and looked away. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. “Master Morgan assures me I can trust you, although he admits he doesn’t know you well.”
“Whereas you have every reason to suspect I will be false and break my oath.”
To his surprise, the girl smiled. “That day in the garden seems a lifetime ago. And one I would sooner forget.”
“Doubly rebuffed,” said Borne, with a grimace.
It was the first time he heard her musical laugh. “Oh, I didn’t mean
because of you! But on that same day I learned my mother had sent Dal away, letting us believe him dead.” She looked down at her hands, which were clenched before her. “The same day I learned I am not my father’s… Cormac Trok’s daughter.”
She shook her head, as if to clear away the memory, then met his gaze evenly. “Please spare me your pity; I have no need of it. I’ve come to terms with my lineage. But I will never forgive my mother for what she did to Dal. She might as well have murdered him herself.”
Borne had the sense to remain silent, and after a moment she continued.
“I haven’t thanked you for… for Dal. Master Morgan told me it was you who found him, and that after… afterward you carried him in your arms.”
“I owe you a debt of gratitude as well,” Borne replied. “If not for you, I would have bled to death on the high meadows. When I learned you’d gone missing, I went to your family’s farm to tell them I’d seen you that day.”
Maura’s eyes widened. “What did my mother and my… Cormac say to this?”
Borne recalled the wretched man before the cold hearth, and he debated whether to add to her burden. He decided he owed her the truth. “I didn’t get the opportunity to speak with your father. He was grieving, and your mother thought it best not to raise false hopes. Did you know that she’s…”
Borne stopped himself, but Maura finished his question for him.
“With child?” she said bitterly. “Oh, yes, that’s Daera—ever prepared to replace the old with the new. When Dal disappeared, she deemed it best we forget him, and I assume she’s urged Cormac to do the same with regard to me. Did you know it was my own mother who put the soldiers on my trail?”
Borne shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ve no recollection of the men who brought me to Windend. Who were they? Did they do you harm?”
“They took me under escort,” replied Maura tersely, “by command of the Tribus.” She brought her hand to her mouth, as if she hadn’t meant to reveal this.
“Forgive me for suggesting it, but if this is true, didn’t your mother do you a service in directing them to you so that they could bring you here to your uncle?”
“Daera Trok serves only her own interests,” Maura said flatly. “Please, let us say no more of her. And while I’m happy Urlion has recognized me as his brother’s daughter, I seek no position at court. It is not a life of my choosing. I simply… find myself at a loss as to how to extricate myself. In fact, it’s partly for this reason that I wished to speak with you. I need to contact Master Morgan, and I am hoping you can help me.”
That was not what Borne had been expecting. “Me? As you said, the wizard and I hardly know each other, and I’m afraid I have no idea how to trace him. But—why do you seek him? Are you concerned that Urlion might name you as his successor?”
“Surely not!” cried Maura—although it sounded to Borne’s ears more like a plea than an expression of disbelief. “A baseborn queen with Lurker blood could hardly be acceptable, either to the Tribus or to the people of Drinnglennin.”
“Nevertheless, these may not be obstacles to Urlion.” Borne studied his hands, then decided to speak his mind. “You do realize that you may have been the intended target of that treasonous arrow at the Twyrn?”
Maura’s expression was dismissive. “I think that unlikely. It’s the king for whom I fear.” She pursed her lips, then seemed to come to a decision as well. “I have reason to believe he’s at risk. I saw… something, the first time I visited his chambers. I didn’t think too much of it at the time, but after this attack, I believe Master Morgan must be told. I think someone close to the High King wants him incapacitated.”
Borne frowned. “What did you see?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you. The fewer who know, the safer for my uncle. I hope you understand.”
“But if you’ve found proof of some sort of treason,” Borne persisted, “don’t you think it should at least be brought to the attention of the Tribus?”
“I don’t know what to think!” Maura paced to the window and back, then stopped once more before him. “In any event, no one has access to the Tribus besides the High King and Master Morgan. And there’s no one else at the court who strikes me as trustworthy.”
“Except me?” said Borne, with a wry smile. “I’m honored, my… Maura.”
He pretended not to notice the flush that rose in her cheeks as a result of his awkward address.
After a brief silence she said, “Well, I’m sorry to have put you through the trouble of coming here.”
“Actually,” Borne said, “I’ve just thought of someone who might be able to get word to your wizard.”
“Truly?”
“I’m not certain, but I’ll find out what I can.”
Maura’s entrancing eyes lit up with renewed hope. “Thank you… Borne. And I must beg your pardon. My manners seem to have deserted me.” She moved to a side table and lifted the pitcher from it. “Will you take wine, sir?”
It appeared that they were now to return to the safer boundaries of courtly conduct. “With pleasure.” He accepted the goblet she poured for him, then took the seat she indicated. “But I am no sir.”
Maura sank into the chair across from him and took a sip of her own wine. Then she leaned back, exposing the lines of her slender neck. “We’ve both been cast in duplicitous roles, haven’t we? It’s a constant concern, keeping up the charade. I’ve already had enough of life on the Tor of Brenhinoedd.”
“After so short a time in Drinnkastel? Where would you go?”
Her fair brow furrowed. “Not back to Dorf—that is certain. There is a place where I’d be welcomed, but I’m not at liberty to say more. I’m sorry.”
Borne shrugged. “There’s no need to apologize. It’s none of my business.” He raised his glass and examined its contents. “Do you know, this wine puts me in mind of summer in Branley Tor. We’ve missed the Gathering this year, haven’t we? I wonder who was the unfortunate recipient of Mistress Tribbly’s peach conserves.”
A quirk appeared at the corner of Maura’s lips, and her eyes danced with amusement, encouraging Borne to continue.
“Do you suppose,” he said, “that Hanley Powech got stuck at the top of the maypole again?”
At this, Maura choked slightly on her wine. “Oh, the poor fellow!” she cried, when she could speak. “How he yowled!”
“Like a coupling tomcat.”
Maura leaned toward him with a mischievous grin. “Wasn’t that the same year the Ridley sisters came to scratches and bites over Dewter Yule?”
“Finda, Sinda, and Jelinda!” Borne hooted. “‘Three times vexed, the hags of Wex, did cast their baleful curses…’ Surely those girls inspired Wexford’s ode! Although what exactly about Dewter beguiled them so remains a mystery. Doesn’t he have three nostrils?”
“One eyebrow,” said Maura gravely, “and an unfortunate habit of spraying when he speaks.”
“A sodden sibilance!”
“Set upon by smitten siblings,” she quipped.
“Of a stolid stocky sort?” Borne raised a quizzical brow, and Maura dissolved into laughter. It was the first time he’d seen her completely at ease, her violet eyes sparkling with wit, her smile warm as honey. A sort of iridescence emanated from her, as though she were her own star.
A scratch on the door heralded the sulky maid, who bore a message on a silver salver. As Maura lifted it to the light, she sobered.
“If you would excuse me.” She broke the seal, but not before Borne had registered its familiarity. He watched her while she scanned the single sheet of paper. When she looked up, her expression was apologetic. “I’m afraid I must respond at once.”
Borne got to his feet. “Of course. I’ll send word if and when I‘ve succeeded in passing your message along.” His voice sounded stiff to his ears, and he felt something akin to anger
stirring in his veins. With a swift bow, he took his leave, pausing only to glance back from the threshold.
He wished he hadn’t. Maura was looking out the window, the letter bearing the black and silver Nelvor seal pressed close against her heart.
Chapter 18
As luck would have it, it turned out that Gilly was in regular communication with Master Morgan. The publican promised to send word of Maura’s need to the wizard, but could not say how long it would take to reach him. Borne went the next day to the castle to report his success, but upon being informed that Lady Maura was out riding with a party from Nelvorboth, he returned to his rooms and sent her a message instead.
A week after the Twyrn, the High King’s guard had still not discovered who was responsible for the attack on the berfrois—and until they did, all participants in the Twyrn had been commanded to remain in Drinnkastel. So now the young competitors, disgruntled that there was to be no melee, roved restlessly through the capital getting up to all sorts of mischief. Borne kept a watchful eye on Cole, for the lad was as bitterly disappointed over the melee’s cancellation as anyone. He had taken to indulging in long nights of strong drink while pursuing his relentless quest to win damsels’ hearts—and hopefully more.
To further dampen everyone’s spirits, the rain bucketed down for days. As a result of the bad weather, Cole and Borne were confined to their rooms. Cole, usually nursing a hangover, prattled on incessantly about his idol.
“Lord Roth says he’s only waiting for the end of this detainment, and then he’s to join the Nelvorboth commander, Lord Vetch, on a major expedition against the Helgrins. Did you know Roth was only sixteen when he led that celebrated boarding of the Helgrin flagship when it strayed into Albrenian waters?”
And he’s done nothing significant in the nine years since, thought Borne.
He didn’t look up from the sword he was polishing, but seized the opportunity to make what he hoped would be a meaningful point. “You might note that the exemplary Lord Roth doesn’t spend his evenings swilling ale, or his days moaning about his resulting sore head.”
