by K. C. Julius
When at last they entered the allée leading to Trillyon, he spurred his horse to a gallop. The courtyard was empty of activity, and the barn and manor were shuttered. Grinner dropped from his horse and made for the pump, his shoulders slumped. There would be no apple tarts.
Despite the obvious signs that the lodge had been abandoned, Fynn wandered around to the back of the house, where he found the woodpile stacked high and an axe leaning against the shed. Bed linens hung on the clothesline, and the door leading into the kitchens was slightly ajar.
It swung open at Fynn’s touch. Drawing his sword, he stepped inside the dark kitchen and sensed at once he was not alone. The stoves were warm to the touch, and the fragrance of freshly baked bread perfumed the air. In the larder, the stocks were low, but a pot of butter sat on the shelf.
Grinner appeared in the doorway, his finger to his lips. He pointed upward.
Silently, they climbed to the second floor of the lodge. The sleeping chambers were musty with disuse, the beds stripped, the linens stored in the wardrobes with sprigs of rosemary. Fynn emerged from Whit’s empty chamber to see Grinner beckoning to him from the foot of the staircase leading up to the third floor.
The books in the little attic library were all still neatly shelved, but the window was open, the curtains fluttering into the room. The two friends exchanged a look and then advanced on the hidden crawlspace Mistress Ella had shown them on their first visit.
Fynn slid open the panel with a swift push, then was yanked back by Grinner as a sharp poker thrust out of the hole, just missing his heart.
Mistress Ella’s startled face appeared at the other end of the iron. “Gods’ breath, Master Fynn—you gave me a fright! I could have killed you!” The chatelaine emerged from her hiding place, her normally tidy cap askew. She searched their faces. “Is Lord Whit with you? Please tell me nothing ill has befallen him?”
“Not as far as we know, Mistress Ella,” Fynn reassured her. “We got separated, though, on our way to Cardenstowe. Are you all alone here?”
The plump little woman sank into a plush chair and pushed a few loose strands of hair from her face. “I am at the moment, but Flax will be back soon. He’s gone for the milk.”
“Gone where?”
Mistress Ella clasped her hands on her lap. “We keep Violet in the woods during the day, so if she lows, no passersby can hear. Everyone else—Cook, the girls, and the stablehands—took the rest of the livestock over to Cardenstowe Castle. You see, after you left with Lord Whit the last time, we had visitors—an army of royal guards, in fact—riding in like wild banshees and shouting for his lordship. Some of them had the effrontery to force their way into the house…” Mistress Ella bit her lip. “Hinman tried to stop them, and was cut down.” Her face crumpled, and she brought her fingers to her trembling lips.
Grinner crouched down beside her chair and gently lifted one of her hands. “Did they hurt ye, Mistress Ella?”
She shook her head. “No, but if I hadn’t sent the girls into the woods when I heard the first shouts, who knows what might have happened to them.”
Fynn frowned. “It doesn’t sound like Trillyon is safe for anyone. Why are you and Flax still here?”
The little woman lifted her chin. “As chatelaine, I’m charged with safeguarding this house. I’ll not leave Lord Whit’s possessions to be picked over by ruffians, for that’s what they were, even if they were wearing the High King’s sigil. I’ve been packing up the rest of the household goods to send over to Cardenstowe Castle.” Despite her bold words, her eyes glistened with tears.
“Let’s get you downstairs, shall we?” Fynn said.
They installed the chatelaine in the small sitting room, and Grinner poured her a stiff brandy.
“I’ll not have you waiting on me, young man,” she scolded, but she accepted the wine and drank it straight down.
At the sound of pounding footsteps in the hall, Grinner and Fynn drew their swords, but put them up when Flax burst into the room, axe in hand. “Gods’ blood!” the groom said, relief lighting his face. “When I saw the horses in the yard…”
“It’s all right, Flax.” Mistress Ella poured another brandy and held it out to the startled man. “Go ahead, drink it. You look as pale as parchment.”
She turned to Fynn and Grinner. “It’s a good thing you came when you did, otherwise we might have missed you. We’re expecting Newt to come back from Cardenstowe any day now with a wagon to carry over the last of the crated goods.” She rose from her chair and dusted her hands on her apron. “Now—you must be hungry after your ride. What can I get you?”
“I’d… I’d like t’ see where Hinman’s laid t’ rest first,” Grinner said. “He were kind t’ me—showed me how to mount a horse, ’e did. I’d like t’ pay me respects.”
Mistress Ella’s face softened. “Yes, of course. I’ll show you.”
The chatelaine led them out to a freshly mounded grave in the small cemetery behind the manor. After a moment of heavy silence, Mistress Ella said, “Perhaps you’d say some words, Master Fynn? I know Emmett would be honored.”
“I don’t know any words,” Fynn admitted. “We don’t bury our dead in… where I come from.”
Flax looked up in surprise.
“But you say something, surely?” Mistress Ella urged. “To see a body off?”
In Restaria, Fynn had heard Aetheor Yarl speak often at cremation ceremonies. The last one he’d attended had been for Inghard Vadiksen, who died an old man by Helgrin standards, sadly in his bed. Still, Inghard had been a respected warrior in his day, and was accorded all the rites. Aetheor had raised a glass to Inghard’s spirit in the Sky Hall, but such a gesture would make no sense here.
But then Fynn remembered a dead owlet he’d found in their garden a few years back. He’d gathered the downy white corpse in his hands and run into the kitchen, hot tears on his cheeks. After Teca helped him dig a grave, Mamma spoke over it. Fynn hadn’t really understood her words at the time, but they were indelibly etched in his mind. He repeated them now for Hinman.
“We shall not say farewell, for you will continue on, a fledgling of memory now taking flight into eternity.” He looked up uncertainly, and was relieved to see the chatelain’s approving nod, her head bowed along with the others.
Afterward, they tramped back to the house and Mistress Ella served up a supper of boiled eggs, smoked trout, and fresh bread and butter. When they’d eaten their fill, the chatelaine asked how they’d come to be separated from her master.
“We was attacked by a dragon,” Grinner stated baldly. “Whit an’ the ol’ wizard went one way, Fynn and me t’other.”
“Did you say you were attacked by a dragon?” Although it was a warm summer night, Mistress Ella drew her shawl closer.
Fynn nodded. “Lord Lowan, whom we met on the road, told us several have been sighted in the north as well.”
Mistress Ella lifted her glass and drained its contents. “All the more reason then,” she said, rising briskly to her feet, “for us to get safely inside the walls of Cardenstowe as soon as we can.”
* * *
It was fortuitous that Newt arrived with a wagon from Cardenstowe the very next morning to finish closing up the lodge. Under Mistress’s Ella’s supervision, Fynn helped Quina, the younger maid, pack up all the perishables from the cellar, while Grinner worked alongside the stablehands to clear out the barn. When all was loaded, Violet was brought out of the woods and tethered behind the wagons.
It was past midday when they set off, with Fynn and Grinner riding in the lead. Newt drove the wagon, which carried Mistress Ella, the two serving girls, all the perishables, and the linens and crockery. Flax brought up the rear on the old plow horse. Whole flocks of crows still cluttered the branches of the trees, their feathers fluffed up like dark capes.
From deep in the woods, Fynn heard a mournful hoot and rec
alled Old Snorri telling him that crows feared owls. Perhaps the old taleweaver could have explained the reason for the birds’ vast numbers. At the very least he could have spun a plausible yarn.
The little party made good time, and when they stopped for the night at a rushing brook, they had not met another soul. According to Mistress Ella, ever since the Nelvor king had taken the throne, folks weren’t venturing abroad unless they had to, which explained the empty roads. The newly formed Nelvor royal guard passed this way at random times, but they were more likely to harass than protect travelers. And what with all the talk of Helgrin raiders, most deemed it prudent to stick close to their homes.
The travelers ate a quiet meal, then retired before the light was even gone. Fynn couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that the crows were watching them. Grinner must have felt the same, for he muttered something in Livårian about cursed creatures as he rolled himself in his cloak, and Fynn could hear him tossing and turning until he drifted off to sleep.
Watched or not, nothing interfered with them in the night, and they started onward again just after dawn. They hadn’t been on the road long, though, before the horses pricked up their ears at the sound of a distant whinny. Silently, Fynn signaled a halt and slid his sword from its scabbard.
Flax edged his horse up beside Fynn’s. “There’s an old trail just ahead,” he said quietly. “If we can get the wagon down it far enough to conceal it, we can leave it and continue on with the horses. The way leads west at first, but then it cuts back to the north and on toward Cardenstowe Castle.”
Behind them, Newt whispered, “My grandda says these woods are crawlin’ with haunts. He told me never t’ leave the road.”
“Nonsense,” Mistress Ella declared. “I’ve traveled the trail many a time and never encountered a single ghoul! Your grandda’s ghost stories were likely spread by some clever forefather of Lord Whit’s to discourage poachers.”
When Newt still looked reluctant, Quina shot him a stern look. “Don’t you go getting all lily-livered on me, Newt Chegwin! We’ve a duty to uphold.”
“Quina’s hit the peg square, Newt,” agreed Mistress Ella. “Lord Whit wants these lads at Cardenstowe, and he’ll expect us to see them safely there. If not, it’ll be on my head.”
Fynn smiled at the chatelaine’s assertion that it was her charge to protect him, although something told him Mistress Ella was not to be underestimated if it came to a fight. Newt must have come to the same conclusion, for he gave the reins a gentle snap and drove the wagon onto the rough trail veering into the woods. It was little more than a rutted track that began almost at once to sidle up the ridge. Once they were far enough off the main road, Mistress Ella distributed the goods that they could carry on with them with brisk efficiency. The rest were stowed in the underbrush. They left the wine tuns covered by a tarp to collect another day, but the chatelaine insisted on taking one large smoked ham, which she cradled protectively against her generous bosom.
Newt unhitched the horses, mounted one, then pulled Quina up behind him. Flax tethered the cow to his horse and hauled Grelda up with him, while Mistress Ella rode with Grinner.
From between the trees, they saw that the decision to take the alternate route had been the right one, for a host of soldiers were camped in the forest below.
“More silver cloaks,” Fynn observed.
Grinner scowled. “And I’d say they’re waitin’ for some’un t’ pass by.”
“It might well be us,” Mistress Ella said grimly. “Well, they can wait until Alithin blows her horn.”
They rode on, pushing the horses as hard as they dared, only pausing once that day to share a hurried meal of bread and cheese. When they finally stopped for the night, no one had much to say, and Fynn figured they were all wondering the same thing as he was—what the silver cloaks were doing in the Cardenstowe woods. He hoped Whit and Morgan were already safe behind the city’s solid walls, for if King Roth had sent his army against the great castle, it would be the start of the dreaded civil war.
War. It was what he’d trained for since the Midsommer morning he’d understood the precarious nature of Mamma’s and his place in their Helgrin home. But that was before his first encounter with battle, when he’d learned he was no Helgrin warrior. He’d been sent home in disgrace by the yarl, only to discover that he’d failed his mother as well.
And he was no Drinnglennian either. Yet because of him, the Isle was about to be plunged into a conflict that would force families, friends, and neighbors to choose a side and take up arms against one another. Morgan had insisted this terrible price must be paid if this was what it would take to put Fynn on the Einhorn Throne and ensure Drinnglennin would stand against Lazdac Strigori. But the old man hadn’t seen how Fynn sickened when faced with bloodshed. The son of the old High King would be expected to show leadership, and his cowardice would mark him, despite his bloodlines, as unfit to rule.
He spent a restless night with these disquieting thoughts, which lingered on the next morning. Only when the boulder-strewn high moors revealed themselves beyond the trees, the brooding grey towers of Cardenstowe Castle rising above them, did Fynn’s dark thoughts flee.
They reined their horses in just inside the last of the sheltering trees to survey the final leg of their journey. Waving heather carpeted the meadows between giant stones that punctuated the rugged landscape surrounding the castle. The main road was hidden, except for the stretch of it that snaked, like an unspooled ribbon, up to the fortress’s gates.
“I suppose we’ll have to wait until dark before we cross the moor,” Fynn said.
“Or I could go have a look-see,” Grinner proposed, “an’ if the road is clear o’ them silver capes, we could make a run fer it. I don’t much like th’ idear of idlin’ away hours here in th’ woods when we be so close t’ yonder castle.”
“I favor Grinner’s suggestion,” the chatelaine said. “Until you’re safe behind Cardenstowe’s walls, you’re fair game for anyone seeking you.”
Grinner set off, darting out of the woods to scamper to the nearest outcrop. Fynn held his breath as his friend made his way from boulder to boulder until the land dipped and he disappeared from sight.
It seemed a lifetime before the å Livåri, bent low, came running back.
“Didn’t see a soul,” Grinner declared. “But the road t’ the east is all twisty-like, and could be there’s watchers just round one o’ them bends. I kept meself down, jus’ in case, so don’t think they coulda seen me if there was.”
It was decided that they would lead the horses over the moor until they could see the road, then mount and ride hard for the castle. With Mistress Ella to vouch for them, they counted on the gates opening without a fatal delay.
Fynn regarded his companions. “Everyone must look to him or herself. If men are watching for us, it’s because they want me, so I’ll try to lead them off over the moor while you ride on for help.” He caught Grinner’s gaze and held it. “And no one is to follow me, do you hear? It’s up to each of you to get yourselves safely inside Cardenstowe’s gates.”
“We ride together for the gate,” said Mistress Ella. “All of us.” She held up her hand, forestalling Fynn’s protest. “I know who you are, Fynn Konigur. Your father’s stamp is clear upon you. You may be the heir to the Einhorn Throne, my young friend, but you’re in our care until you’re seated on it.”
Grinner grinned at Fynn. “Ye heard ’er.”
Fynn saw it was no use arguing.
They rode to the crest of the hill, beyond which a sweeping moor stretched to the stony headlands fronting the Vast Sea. Looming above them, Cardenstowe Castle perched on the cliffs, a dark, imposing bulwark overlooking the churning waters, and to the southeast, spiraling up out of the forests, lay an empty road.
Fynn met each of his companions’ eyes in turn, then nodded.
“Now.”
Chapte
r 24
Maura
When the Basilea first sent her to the barracks to find out more about the new Gralian herald’s personal life, Maura had been too shocked upon seeing Borne to do more than race back to her palanquin as though Blearc’s hounds were nipping at her heels. And then, when she’d calmed down, her first instinct was to return to speak with him. But she’d promised Ilyria not to reveal herself to anyone, and she knew Borne would have questions she couldn’t answer. In addition, she didn’t know if she could trust him. Following Cole’s death, he and Roth had often been in each other’s company. It was true that later Roth had complained that Borne’s departure from Drinnglennin had been unlawful—but to her knowledge, no formal charges had been made against him. And here in Olquaria, Borne was a high-ranking commander. He might feel duty-bound to report her unexplained presence in Tell-Uyuk to the authorities.
In the end, she’d decided the best course of action was to simply avoid the man for as long as she could.
Unfortunately, when the inevitable encounter finally took place, it was at the Censibas, that most public of arenas. Maura had managed, very awkwardly, not to speak directly with Borne on that occasion, and he hadn’t recognized her. And since then, he had ignored her—although she sensed an undercurrent of irritation on his part, which she did nothing to dispel.
She had watched him though, from a discreet distance. And she couldn’t help but observe that his manner toward the princess was… reserved. She might have speculated that his reluctance to show his emotions stemmed from the lingering shadow of Cole’s tragic death, but the Borne of Olquaria seemed as far removed from that grief-stricken man as he was from the cocky youth she’d first encountered at the Gatherings in Branley Tor. Now a herald serving the Gralian throne and a member of the Order of the Bells, Ser Borne was a man of power and reputation.
Perhaps it was this stature and standing that made Yasiha look past his mild aloofness—if she even felt it at all. The princess was apparently satisfied that his recent attentions were proof of his intentions toward her—she confided to Maura that she suspected Borne’s marriage proposal would be made soon—and if she sensed her feelings ran deeper than his, she didn’t remark on it. Maura had spent enough time at her own late uncle’s court to know that noble marriages were contracted to serve practical purposes: securing allies, consolidating borders, enriching coffers, or promoting advancement, but she couldn’t help feeling an odd sense of disappointment for Yasiha, who deserved a loving spouse. She found herself wondering what her friend might do to unlock Borne’s closely guarded heart.
