by K. C. Julius
“It’s customary,” he remarked sternly, “for any subjects who have not yet done so to kneel and swear fealty to their High King.” He looked pointedly at Sir Wren, who had accompanied Fynn in Whit’s absence.
When the young knight remained silent, Roth frowned. “Your king is speaking to you, knave.”
Wren kept his eyes forward. “I’ve already pledged my service to my king.”
Roth swung down from his magnificent coal-black destrier, then tossed his reins to his companion, who sported a tall felt hat with yellow feathers sprouting from it. “And so you have sealed your fate, which is a traitor’s death.”
The Nelvor’s hand went to the hilt of his sword as he strode toward Wren, who slid off his horse to face him. But Morgan was quick to set his mare between them.
“My lords—we’re here to discuss terms, not brawl over them.”
“Out of my way, old man,” Roth growled, “or I’ll carry out the sentence you so cowardly escaped, and cut you down here and now.”
Halla spurred her stallion to Morgan’s side. “You’ll have to go through me first.”
“My lords and lady!” exclaimed Lord Ennius. “I must remind you we are under a white flag!”
Roth smirked at Halla, while the dandy holding the royal destrier openly ogled her. “An old man, a traitor, and a girl—is this the best your pretender can muster to support his claim?”
Fynn dropped from his saddle and stepped forward, Grinner at his side. “I would trust any of them with my life.”
“Oh, this is rich!” Genuine amusement lit Roth’s eyes. “You’ve armed Lurkers as well?” A glimmer of surprise crossed his face as he gave Fynn his full attention. “Why, you’re no more than a boy! You do know they’re just using you, don’t you, you poor bastard?”
“I’m no one’s pawn,” Fynn replied stoutly, “nor am I a bastard. My father was Urlion Konigur, my mother Georgiana Fitz-Pole, and they married in Langmerdor before I was born.”
“As you have already been informed, Lord Roth,” Master Morgan interjected. “We’ve brought with us the documents that prove this claim.”
Roth made a dismissive wave of his hand. “Documents can be forged. It’s an established fact that Urlion Konigur was my father, and even if he had got this boy on the Fitz-Pole woman, I’m still the elder son.”
Halla laughed, earning her a scowl from the Nelvor. “Urlion Konigur liked to boast he’d sired any number of bastards,” she pointed out. “He even claimed me as one of them, although he later owned the lie. The ‘established fact’ regarding your claim is that he never acknowledged you. I find that to be extremely convincing proof that you’re not of his line.”
Roth’s scowl deepened, making his likeness to her nemesis even more striking. “Lorendale, isn’t it? You’re in the wrong camp, girl—your brother has wisely chosen the right side to support.”
Halla’s heart sank, for if this was true, it would pit Lorendale against Cardenstowe and Fynn, and her against her brothers.
“Your Majesty.” Lord Vetch leaned over to whisper in his king’s ear. A smile spread across the Nelvor’s face as he listened, putting Halla even more on her guard.
When the Lord Commander stepped respectfully back, Roth proclaimed, “My Tribus has made a fair suggestion. You will hand over these documents of ‘proof’ you claim to have. If we can refute them, you will stand your army down, which, I assure you, will save you all a great deal of grief.”
“A fair suggestion?” echoed Master Morgan. “I can’t say I agree. You would like nothing better than to get hold of this evidence, and then destroy it.”
“But he must see it, surely,” said Fynn. “These good men all have,” he added, nodding to the lords who had accompanied him, “and it was what convinced them. It seems only fair that if we are asking Lord Roth to abdicate, he should receive the same benefit.”
Roth folded his arms across his chest, and Halla’s skin crawled at the look of triumph in his eyes.
Lord Bretwell of Langmerdor stepped forward. “If I may speak, my lords? As you’ve noted, Lord Roth, documents can be forged, but the High King’s seal, which this marriage certificate bears, cannot be. None who see it can deny it’s genuine, as is Monter Grevis’s seal. I can bear witness to this, as the monter served at Thraven and I know his stamp well. There are many besides me who can vouch for its authenticity.”
Lord Vetch scanned their party seeking the holy man. “This monter is with you to attest to this?”
Lord Bretwell shook his head. “Sadly, Monter Grevis made the Leap shortly after joining our late High King and his bride in matrimony.”
“How convenient,” Vetch said with a smirk.
Ignoring the commander, Master Morgan called out directly to the Nelvor’s supporters. “My lords! You will all bear witness!” Before anyone could stop him, he spurred his horse across the divide between the two camps and held up the marriage certificate so that all could read it and see Urlion’s seal for themselves. “Here is proof of Fynn Konigur’s legitimacy! And we have more—an alphyn pendant, forged by the dwarves of Glornadoor in the time of the Before, and passed down by the Konigurs for generations. Urlion wore it all his life, until the day he learned he was to have a child, at which time he had it hewn in two. After this was done, he wore the head of the alphyn, and the body was bequeathed to his heir. On his deathbed, Urlion bade me take his pendant and find its other half, which was given to his lawful son by Georgiana Fitz-Pole, his lawful wife, on the day she drew her last breath. Lord Fynn wears them both now.”
A murmuring of voices rose as all eyes rested on the two pendants that lay on Fynn’s chest. But Halla saw a dark look pass between Lord Roth and Lord Vetch.
“You all can see for yourselves, my lords,” Lord Ennius added, “our young prince’s striking resemblance to his father.”
“I don’t see it,” Roth snapped, then held out his hand as Morgan trotted his horse back to the center of the field. “Now—we would examine this document, as would my Tribus.”
Lord Wogan of Fairendell turned to Fynn. “My lord, I agree with you that the certificate should be shown to the Tribus and Lord Roth. Destroying it won’t serve the Nelvors’ interests, as we will all bear witness that we gave it intact into their possession.”
“Just so,” Roth affirmed. “But you must also give us some time to authenticate the Konigur seal, of which I am in possession.”
The lords of the lower realms exchanged uneasy glances, and Halla could imagine what they were thinking. If Roth had Urlion’s seal, could he not just have another document forged affirming his own legitimacy? Although if he did, it would raise the question of why such a document was only coming to light now.
The Nelvor signaled for the man with the ridiculous hat to come forward. “As a gesture of goodwill, I offer you Lord Lawton, my kinsman and boon companion, as surety.”
The designated lord paled, and for a brief moment, Halla thought he would protest. But then he swept off the hat and bowed his head. “I live to serve, Your Majesty.”
“I will require one of your party to accompany me back to Drinnkastel,” Roth continued, “until we have ascertained the authenticity of this document.” His eyes fell on Halla. “I think the Lady of Lorendale would do nicely. Perhaps while she’s in our company, she’ll come to see the error of her ways. I know this would please Lord Nolan.”
“Out of the question!” Morgan thundered.
But Halla was all for the suggestion. “A moment, if you please, Lord Roth. My lords, may we confer?”
When the Konigur contingent had retreated far enough so as not to be overheard, Halla offered her arguments. “I’m the perfect choice, gentlemen. Lord Roth needs my brother’s soldiers, so he won’t risk alienating Nolan by harming me.” She met the wizard’s stern gaze. “You certainly can’t go. You’re a condemned man as far as Roth is concerned, so he woul
dn’t feel bound to honor a pledge of safety for you. And as for the rest of you, my lords, your own men need your leadership, while I have no army.”
Halla sensed they were nearly convinced. She turned to Fynn.
“Please, my lord—let me go. You can make the condition that I only be held for three days and that I be allowed to send a bird each day to confirm I’m being well-treated.”
Master Morgan still protested. “I must counsel against Lady Halla as part of this exchange, Lord Fynn.”
But Fynn held Halla’s gaze. “As long as Lady Halla promises not to do anything to risk the Nelvor’s displeasure, I think she’s the right choice.”
Although she suspected this condition would be hard to adhere to, Halla gave her word. The rest of the terms were soon agreed upon, and Master Morgan surrendered the document certifying the marriage of Fynn’s parents to Roth, albeit with obvious reluctance. Roth didn’t even glance at it, but they all bore witness as he handed it into the Tribus’s coach.
Then Halla mounted Rowlan and followed the haughty Nelvor king toward the famous Havard Gate.
* * *
As she had never before visited Drinnkastel, Halla couldn’t compare Roth Nelvor’s capital with that of her late cousin, Urlion Konigur. There was evidence of recent renovations to the fortifications, of which she grudgingly approved, but she was less impressed with the profusion of red-and-silver banners flying from the battlements and hanging from the walls lining the cobbled streets.
It puzzled her that so few people were about, since the temple bells hadn’t yet rung sext. The folk they did pass stopped wheeling their barrows or paused on the thresholds of their homes to pay silent homage to their king as he passed. Halla recalled Master Torrin telling her how the peasants used to call out blessings and friendly greetings to Urlion in the days when he was a regular visitor at Lorendale. These mute curtseys and forelock tugs spoke volumes about what the common folk thought of their new sovereign.
As the royal progression entered the palace courtyard, Lord Vetch spoke to Halla for the first time, in a voice as cold as ice. “Be forewarned, my lady—you will be under guard at all times.”
Before Halla could think of a biting response, a petite dark-haired woman in voluminous skirts swept down the palace steps to embrace the High King. Although she was a beauty, the lady was too old to be one of Roth’s women. The mother, then, Halla thought. The one who styles herself as the queen. Grindasa, sister to Palan.
Roth strode away after their brief exchange, and Grindasa turned her gaze on Halla, who deliberately neglected to curtsey. To her surprise, the queen merely looked amused as she advanced on her with outstretched hands.
“Lady Halla! I regret the circumstances under which we meet for the first time. I have fond memories of your mother and your aunt, who were once guests of ours at Nelvorboth when my late husband was still alive. Inis was a particular favorite of mine; it’s a pity that my lord Urlion and she fell out.” Grindasa grasped Halla’s hands and smiled sweetly up at her. “We must look on your stay with us as an opportunity to further strengthen the bonds of friendship between our houses.”
Taken aback by this gracious overture, Halla required a moment to find her tongue. When she did, she kept her tone formal. “Your Highness, I am a hostage, not a guest.”
Grindasa gave a melodic little laugh, then slipped her arm through Halla’s. “You may be in my son’s custody, but you shall be under my wing for the duration of your time in Drinnkastel.”
Halla saw no way to extract herself from the woman’s hold, and since the queen’s offer to safeguard her would likely put her in the thick of the court, she would be a fool not to at least make a show of gratitude. She murmured her thanks, although it cost her an effort.
They started up the courtyard staircase, upon which the Lord Commander presented himself at Grindasa’s side. Somewhat red in the face, he executed a smart bow. “My queen, I will take charge of the lady. She is my concern and you need not trouble yourself—”
Grindasa didn’t pause in her progress. “I beg to differ, Lord Vetch—Lady Halla is very much my concern. I don’t anticipate any trouble from her—or from you,” she added, a touch of iron at the core of her honeyed tone. “You may post a sentry outside our guest’s door in the night if you must, but no one is to dog her ladyship’s footsteps, nor will a guard attend her at dinner tonight. Lady Halla is to be treated according to the dignity of her station!”
Lord Vetch looked so pained, Halla almost felt sorry for the man. Almost. Still, she couldn’t resist flashing a smirk of triumph at him over the petite queen’s head.
Grindasa escorted Halla to the apartment in which she was to be housed. It was three times the size of her parents’ solar at Lorendale, and even included an antechamber for entertaining. The rooms were sumptuously decorated with the richest of fabrics, the walls hung with priceless tapestries. A dark-haired maid in the corner of the room bobbed a curtsey, her eyes lowered to the rug.
“I had these rooms renovated after the lady I’d thought would be my daughter-in-law vacated them,” Grindasa confided with an air of regret. “Mercifully, we learned about her origins before the union came to pass. Blood will out, and hers was the lowest of the low.”
Halla had learned of Maura’s ill-fated engagement to Lord Roth from Master Morgan. She swallowed the bitter retort that leapt to her lips and wandered over to the dressing table, feeling Grindasa’s eyes upon her.
“I still have hopes,” the older woman added, “that my son will make an appropriate match to a true lady with an established noble lineage.”
Halla blinked. Surely Grindasa wasn’t suggesting that she was suitable? The thought of marrying the queen’s pompous son made Halla choke back a bubble of laughter. Roth had rejected Maura based on her å Livåri blood; how would the Nelvors react when they learned Halla had willingly—eagerly—taken an å Livåri lover and borne his daughter out of wedlock?
Grindasa moved toward the door. “You must be tired, Lady Halla, and you wish to rest before dinner.” She swept her gaze over Halla’s tunic and leggings. “I’ll have the maid find you something suitable to wear, although Lady Cyrielle is the only one of my ladies who comes anywhere close to your height. As for your hair…” She cast a dubious glance at the ginger curls barely brushing Halla’s shoulders. “Perhaps you could wear a hennin?” She nodded firmly, as if the matter were settled. “We dine after compline—we’ve always found it so much more civilized to observe Continental ways. I think you’ll find yourself well-entertained during your stay with us, my dear. My son keeps a fine table and is a great purveyor of the arts; only the best minstrels perform at his court. Do you sing, my dear? Or play?”
“Sadly, I do not, madam.” In fact, Baldo had compared Halla’s singing voice unfavorably to that of a frog’s.
“A pity.” Grindasa offered another bright smile. “Should you require anything, just send the maid for it.”
As the queen made her exit, Halla caught the dark-haired maid shooting daggers after her. Sensing an ally, Halla followed her instincts as soon as the door had closed behind Grindasa. “You don’t like the queen very much, do you?”
Apprehension replaced the fury in the young woman’s eyes.
“You needn’t worry I’ll say anything,” Halla hastened to add. “I’m here as Lord Roth’s hostage, and I can assure you that no matter how sweetly Grindasa Nelvor speaks to me, we are not, nor will we ever be, friends.”
“It isn’t true,” said the maid fiercely, “what she said about Lady Maura.”
“You know Lady Maura?”
The young woman lifted her chin proudly. “I was her lady’s maid, and a kinder, gentler soul never lived! Lady Maura’s fivefold the gentlewoman that bedswerver Grindasa purports to be!” She flushed then, her hand flying to cover her mouth.
Halla grinned. “I can see we’re very much of like minds. What’
s your name?”
The maid made a small bob. “Heulwin, my lady.”
“Well, Heulwin, I happen to be a close friend of Lady Maura’s, so I know the truth of your words.”
Heulwin’s face lit up. “Do you know how my lady fares? I’ve been ever so worried since Rab told me he saw her fly off on a dragon.”
“Alas, I have no news of her. But you needn’t fear for Maura. The dragon didn’t hurt her.”
The maid sank into the nearest chair. “Alithin’s breath! So it’s true—my lady is dragonfast! Why, it’s like something out of a faerie tale! Mind you, I did wonder if there was something… extraordinary about Lady Maura. I’d seen the marks just here, you see.” She made a circling motion over her heart. “She did her best to hide them—always wanting to bathe alone and such.” Suddenly recalling herself, the maid surged to her feet. “I beg your pardon, my lady.”
“It’s perfectly all right.”
The maid curtseyed again. “If you’ll not be wanting anything at the moment, my lady, I’ll go along to Lady Cyrielle to collect a gown for you.”
“Just a word more? I wonder if you might tell me how all is going in Lord Roth’s court.”
A guarded look settled on Heulwin’s face. “King Roth, you mean?”
“He’s not my king, Heulwin, and hopefully soon he won’t be yours either. Urlion Konigur’s legal heir stands outside Drinnkastel’s gates with an army of supporters.”
A sharp knock on the door prevented the maid’s response, and she hurried to open it, then proceeded to have a whispered conversation with the unseen caller.
Halla stiffened when she caught the words “On pain of death, do you understand?”
Heulwin slipped out the door, leaving it wide behind her. As Halla moved to follow her, two tall, veiled women entered her chamber.
“You are Halla of Lorendale?” said the first, her voice low and throaty.
“As you must well know. Who are you?”
The woman hesitated, as if taken aback by Halla’s directness. “Suffice it to say that we are friends, Lady Halla, come to warn you. You’re in grave danger here.”
