by K. C. Julius
“Roth, is it now?” said Leif, failing to quell the irritation in his voice. “Then certainly, I see it must wait.”
Maura chose to ignore his sour sarcasm. “I’ll be back before supper,” she promised. She reached out to give his hand a squeeze, but stopped short when she saw the grime under his nails. “My uncle expects me to sup with him in his rooms, and of course you’re welcome to join us, but you’d better bathe beforehand. We can talk after dinner.”
With a quick smile, she hurried on her way, her maid Heulwin trailing behind.
Leif frowned after her. After all her chiding, what had become of Maura’s resolve to keep to herself at Urlion’s court? Not that he could blame her for seeking amusement. At least it seemed that in doing so, her health had improved. Still, he couldn’t help feeling abandoned as she sailed out through the arched doors.
“Well,” he muttered, “then I’ll just have to seek my own means of entertainment.”
* * *
As usual, the cobbled streets of the capital teemed with mounted couriers, clusters of monters, carriages bearing noble families, and the usual assortment of craftsmen, tradesmen, and less savory elements of city life. Leif kept his purse close as he wandered down Holder’s Lane, where he chanced on a tavern called The Tilted Kilt. At midday, the pub was relatively empty, but he was greeted warmly enough by a pretty barmaid and was soon seated in a small alcove overlooking the street.
“Would the young master fancy a flagon of our best?” As the serving girl leaned close to Leif, her floral scent filled his nostrils, making him homesick for the elven woods and his lively elven companions there.
“Would you join me to share it?” he asked.
The barmaid gave him a gentle shove. “Away with you, sir! Gilly’d have me head if I did!” She inclined her head toward the proprietor, who was deep in conversation with a man whose back was to them. Hearing his name, the barman glanced over at them, then his companion turned as well.
“Hello!” Leif called cheerfully. For it was Borne Braxton, the fellow who, by Leif’s reckoning, had won the Twyrn and then had proceeded to lead his side to victory in mob ball, albeit with a tragic end.
Borne returned the greeting, and after a further brief exchange with Gilly, lifted his glass and made for Leif’s table. Only when he drew closer did Leif register the price grief had exacted on the fellow. His face was drawn, and dark smudges beneath his eyes spoke of sleepless nights.
“I’d be pleased to buy you another of those,” said Leif, indicating his drink, “to thank you for getting me back safely to my table the night I… well, you remember better than I do, I’m sure.”
Borne lowered his big frame onto the bench across the table, then raised an eyebrow as the serving girl set a flagon of ale before Leif.
Leif shrugged good-naturedly. “I’ll take it slowly.”
A dimple appeared in Borne’s cheek as he raised his glass. “To what are we drinking then? To your friend, Lady Maura?”
Leif frowned. “She’s found other friends more to her liking.”
“I see. Well then, shall we drink to new friends?”
Leif grinned. “I’d like that.” He raised his glass to salute Borne, then took a sip of the cool brown ale.
Borne sat back and stretched out his long legs. “I’ve never seen you here before.”
“No,” said Leif, “we’re not supposed… that is, we don’t have much leisure to explore the city, what with Maura’s obligations to the High King.”
“And yet you say she’s managed to make new friends at court,” Borne observed.
“Well, only just recently,” Leif admitted. “She’s off riding with them now.”
“And you didn’t join?” Borne sobered at Leif’s expression. “Ah, I see. You weren’t invited.”
Leif looked down into his ale. “I wouldn’t mind so much, except that I’ve something important to share with her, and she couldn’t make time for me to tell her.”
Borne’s gaze had drifted over to the bar, but suddenly, Leif had his full attention. “I’d be the first to caution you about breaking confidences, but if there is some way I can be of help, you’ve only to ask.”
Leif considered this. What he’d overheard wasn’t something to be bandied about publicly—but Master Morgan had said they could trust Borne. So Leif related the snatches of conversation he’d overheard outside the garden door.
Borne listened intently. “Honestly, I don’t know what this exchange might mean, but I do have welcome news. Some time ago, Maura asked me to help her contact the wizard, and I passed her request on to Gilly over there. Don’t let his appearance fool you—he and Master Morgan fought together in the Long War, and they’re old friends. In fact, when you walked in, Gilly was just telling me Master Morgan received his message and is expected in Drinnkastel any day now.”
“That’s wonderful news!” Feeling a flood of relief, Leif took a heady swig from his goblet.
Borne lifted his own mug in salute, then leaned toward him. “You must be sure to pass this news on to Maura. I expect she will be equally pleased to hear of your friend’s imminent return.”
“Of course, I’ll tell her,” Leif promised, then added, “That is, as soon as I can tear her away from her latest social engagement.”
Borne gave him a sympathetic smile. “Although it may be tiresome, it’s best if you both stay close to the castle until Master Morgan’s return.”
Leif thought this good advice. But he couldn’t help wondering whether Maura would do the same.
Chapter 27
Borne
It fell to Borne to select the fine casket and clothes in which his best friend would be laid to rest. He penned the difficult letter to Cole’s father, doing his best to break the tragic news as gently as possible, and sent it off with the swiftest courier. He had taken the iron disk that his mother had given him from around his neck and placed it in Cole’s coffin, then sat by his friend’s body through three nights, until the monters insisted the box be sealed to await Lord Heptorious’s arrival to bear it home to Windend.
Once these duties were seen to, Borne spent most of his waking hours on the training grounds, engaged in hard swordplay in a vain attempt to erase the memory of the day Cole died. Images of the procession after the mob ball match—the road lined on either side with cheering throngs hailing Borne as the victor from Windend, an ancestral house to which he had no claim—played repeatedly through his thoughts. Cole should have received those accolades, but a murderer’s arrow had robbed him of the pleasure. He could hear the cheers dying on the crowd’s lips, followed by a confused murmuring, and finally silence as Borne passed with his dead friend cradled in his arms.
Ironically, it was Roth who provided Borne with some distraction from his misery. The lord of Nelvorboth partnered him on the training ground every day, and their fierce sparring freed Borne, for a time, from his grief. After they exhausted themselves, they returned to Borne’s rooms, where Roth elicited his opinions on military strategies employed throughout history. Roth spoke often of Albrenia, a land to which he clearly felt a connection, conversing with Borne in high Albrenian until Borne was weary enough to sleep. It was a kindness he had not expected from the Nelvorbothian lord, though Roth’s waxing lyrical over Albrenia reminded Borne of Sir Heptorious’s suspicions as to where the Nelvors’ true loyalties lay. And he was more than a bit discomfited when the Nelvor lord espoused intolerant continental views on magic and the å Livåri.
Once Roth departed, the long nights had still to be endured. Borne slept fitfully, his dreaming mind determined to replay that fateful day over and over. He often awoke in a cold sweat at the moment the arrow struck home and the light left Cole’s eyes. Many times, in the small hours, he opted to rise and roam the streets rather than endure the recurring nightmare.
His wandering often took him to the Tilted Kilt. It was closed
at these times, but Gilly would still be up, putting the pub to bed. Gilly—or Sir Gilbin, he should say, for on one of these late-night visits Borne learned the publican’s true identity—would take him inside, pour him a glass of port, and try to assure him that he wasn’t to blame for Cole’s death.
But Borne knew in his heart that he bore the responsibility for what had occurred. The mob ball match had been his idea, and if he’d been the one to score the winning goal, Cole would still be alive. It didn’t matter that Borne himself might not be. He owed Lord Heptorious everything, and in trying to please his guardian, he’d sacrificed the earl’s heir—the last of his name, and the most treasured person in both of their lives.
* * *
Borne awoke in the Tilted Kilt with Gilly’s hand on his shoulder. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but his empty snifter was beside him on the table.
“I thought you’d want to know,” said Gilly. “I’ve heard word that Lord Heptorious has just arrived at the castle.”
Borne rose stiffly. “Thank you, Gilly. I’ll go to him at once.”
He hurried through the streets, oblivious of those he passed. Despite his heavy heart, he was happy Lord Heptorious had finally arrived. The old man had been more like a father than a guardian to Borne these past nine years. Perhaps once he was with the earl, he could properly mourn Cole, for he had not yet allowed himself to shed a tear.
But when he passed through the castle gate and caught sight of the earl, Borne’s greeting died on his lips. Lord Heptorious advanced on him, his face contorted with misery and rage.
Borne didn’t attempt to dodge the blow the old knight leveled at him; he took it full on the jaw, then staggered to one knee, heedless of the blood dripping from his ravaged face.
“I am so very sorry, my lord.” His apology was beyond insufficient, but it was all he could think to say.
“Sorry, are you?” growled Lord Heptorious, his breath ragged. Tears streamed down his weathered cheeks. “Sorry won’t bring him back!”
The old man raised his fist a second time, and Borne welcomed the earl’s anger—a small penance for his crime. He cursed when a woman darted forward, forestalling the blow.
“My lord,” she said, taking hold of Lord Heptorious’s arm, “you are not yourself. I beg of you, come away to your chamber, along with your nephew, where this misunderstanding can be resolved.”
Maura. It was Maura who had intervened.
With a roar, Lord Heptorious shook her off. “There’s been no misunderstanding!” He glared down at Borne, his expression anguished. “I should never have let you near my beloved boy!”
Then the earl turned his back and stalked away.
A small crowd had gathered, but Maura waved them away. “Go about your business!” she commanded. “There’s nothing more to see here!” She helped Borne to his feet and pressed a handkerchief into his hand. “Hold it to your face,” she instructed quietly as she led him away.
Somehow they ended up at her chamber, sweeping through the door past her astonished maid.
“You may go, Heulwin,” said Maura, drawing Borne to a chair.
“But my lady!” the maid protested. “You can’t—”
“I can and I shall,” Maura retorted. “Please find my lord a clean tunic, and leave it outside the door.”
When the maid was gone, Maura soaked a cloth in the basin and gently washed Borne’s face and neck. She ignored his feeble protest as she drew his stained shirt over his head, then handed him a clean linen to drape around his neck.
“Your maid is right, you know,” Borne said. “I shouldn’t be here.”
He pushed himself up, but Maura laid her hand on his shoulder and gently pressed him back into the chair. She dabbed an unguent on his jaw that stung like fire. Then, after searching his face, she tugged him to his feet. When he saw she was leading him to her bed, he pulled back.
Maura bestowed on him a small, amused smile. “I’ve no designs on your virtue. What you need more than anything is sleep. You’ll have privacy here.”
Borne found he lacked the strength to argue, for as soon as Maura slipped out the chamber door, the terrible storm of his grief broke.
* * *
Her fragrance woke him. She sat near the window, reading a book by a single candle’s light. She had changed into a dress of simple linen, and her hair, the color of ripe wheat, fell in dense waves round her shoulders. Most maidens of Drinnkastel shunned the sun, but Maura’s skin glowed golden.
Seeing him stir, she put the book aside and rose. “You’ve slept through the day,” she said. “There’s water and a basin to refresh yourself. I’ll be back shortly.”
He saw that fresh clothes had been laid out for him at the foot of the bed.
He put them on, then picked up the book she’d been reading. Maura found him leafing through it upon her return.
“How apt,” he murmured, looking up with a wry smile. “Lapins: Treating Disease and Injury. You have a penchant for tending to weak, wounded creatures.”
“Lapins are actually quite hardy,” Maura said. “But after a grievous hurt, they need sleep and nourishment to recover.” She set down the tray she carried and inclined her head toward the bread and cheese.
Borne shook his head. “You’ve been too kind, and I won’t linger. I only hope my presence here hasn’t compromised your reputation.”
“Fiddle my reputation,” Maura scoffed.
It forced a laugh from him. “You really are a most singular young woman, Maura. Thank you. Once again, I’m in your debt.”
“I only did what was necessary. Lord Heptorious was not in his right mind.”
“Oh, on the contrary, he has every reason to hate me.”
“I don’t believe that. You were the best of friends to his son.” Maura tilted her head to look up at him, and he saw the flickering candlelight dance in her violet eyes.
Borne felt an unfamiliar jolt in the region of his heart at her unexpected proclamation of faith in him. He paced to the window and back again. “You don’t understand. He’s been like a father to me. The earl gave me the gift of an education, and the opportunity to experience life beyond our little village—to make something of myself. And I’ve repaid him by killing the one person he loved most in the world.”
“You can’t claim responsibility for Cole’s death. That was the work of an assassin.”
“And yet I’m as guilty as the one who loosed the arrow,” Borne said bitterly.
“But surely—”
“Surely Lord Heptorious will be happier if he never lays eyes on me again. I plan to accommodate him. I’ll stay in Drinnkastel only long enough to discover who the attacker was. Once he’s dealt with, one way or another, I’ll be gone.”
“What do you mean, one way or another? It’s for the courts to decide his punishment, and the blackguard will surely hang.”
“First they have to apprehend him.”
“The High King will spare no effort in this,” Maura insisted. “In the meantime, you know no one who participated in the Twyrn is allowed to leave the capital. If you don’t plan to return to Branley Tor when you are free to leave, where will you go?”
“I… don’t know,” he admitted.
Maura filled a goblet with wine and held it out to him. “I believe Lord Heptorious will regret his rash words and action. He knows you for a good man. Perhaps he will—”
“I don’t deserve your good opinion, but I am grateful for it nonetheless. No, I’ll not be welcome back at Windend, nor could I return there even if I were.” He reluctantly took the proffered wine. “What about you? Will you go back to Branley Tor?”
Maura looked away, then shook her head.
No, of course you won’t. Someone like her needed a bigger stage than Dorf could offer. Here in Drinnkastel, Maura held a place of honor in Urlion’s household, and she had
all those new friends Leif mentioned—a number of suitors no doubt among them. She had a bright future ahead.
Borne studied her—this pretty, brave maid who had once saved his life, and who now had salvaged a little of his dignity by providing him with this brief safe haven. She’d blossomed into a beautiful, poised woman. Beholding her thus, he felt something shift in his chest.
Which must have also registered on his face.
“What is it?” Maura took a step toward him, her fair brow creased with concern.
The air was suddenly too rare for breathing, but Borne forced a smile. “I’ve just recalled that I’ve neglected an appointment,” he replied, with what he hoped was a semblance of composure. But his heart was thundering in his ears. What had just happened to him was entirely inappropriate.
Too late. It was too late.
Setting his glass down with care, he made a bow of departure. “You must be in need of rest, my lady. I will leave you to it.”
As he started past her, she laid a slender hand on his arm, and her touch ignited fire in his blood. “You will let me know where you are?” She was so close. Her scent flooded his senses like summer light.
Not trusting himself to speak, Borne merely nodded. Blindly, he made his way to the door to escape the sphere of her bright presence, then somehow found himself outside the confines of the castle. The first stars winked in the gloaming, evoking a line from a half-remembered poem.
All of heaven is remade, mine eyes to see anew.
Too late, his heart had chosen what it most desired.
Too late, for he could never hope to hold it.
* * *
Lord Heptorious left for Windend the next morning, bearing with him his only son. The news reached Borne at Netley Street, along with the letter—returned unopened—that Borne had written to his benefactor after returning to his rooms.
Borne’s ties with Windend were now irrevocably severed.
Doggedly, he took himself down to the training ground, where he passed the morning in swordplay with Roth, who had the good grace to refrain from asking him about his marred face. Of course, he had no need to ask; it would be common knowledge at court by now.
