As they neared the next landing, she saw glorious golden daylight spilling down from above through open doors on the left. The promise of sunlight banished her questions, and the ache in her legs almost vanished. Cele started climbing before Dahleven quenched the flames of their torch in a barrel of sand. Then he caught up with her quickly, taking the stairs two at a time.
A cacophony echoed down the steps. Laughter, shouts, and shrieks of children playing reverberated on the stone, mingling with faint music. When they reached the top, Cele stopped under a wide arch framed with a set of open doors, and gazed out into a huge courtyard filled with the colorful mayhem of a bazaar. The deep blue sky of dry mountain air arced from wall to wall, streaked with high gauzy clouds. Cele’s heart suddenly felt lighter, without the weight of the mountain hanging over her head. Then Dahleven took her arm and propelled her forward, into chaos.
The crowd was thick, with people jockeying for access to carts and stalls displaying wares. Dahleven paused as a gaggle of children ran by, laughing shrilly, then hustled Cele forward through the throng. Her surroundings blurred into a mélange of bright colors and jostling bodies, broken by the occasional voice hawking wool or tarts, lifted to carry over the hubbub. The aroma of roasted meat wafted to her and made her mouth water. Cele pressed closer to Dahleven, overwhelmed by the riotous sounds of the market after the quiet of the tunnels. Halfway across the compound, Dahleven startled Cele by shouting, “Ranulf!”
A gray haired man, barely taller than Cele, separated himself from the crowd. He hurried over and nodded in an approximation of a bow. “Lord Dahleven! We’ve looked for you these last two days.” Ranulf stared at Cele. His eyes widened as he took in her appearance, then he focused on Dahleven. “Your father is anxious to see you.”
Dahleven ignored Ranulf’s remarks. “This is Lady Celia Montrose. Give her a room in the west wing and fetch Thora to attend her. Show her all courtesy, and tell Thora to find her some new clothing.” Dahleven turned to her. “Lady Celia, I leave you in Ranulf’s expert care. If you have any concern or need, either Thora or he will see to it.” Dahleven said the last looking pointedly at Ranulf under lowered brows, and the older man nodded again, deeper this time, but with his head cocked to the side.
Cele felt a surge of alarm, but Dahleven didn’t give her any opportunity to protest. He was striding away before she could utter a word.
“My lady? If you will follow me?” Ranulf inclined his head respectfully, then paused. “I’ll take your pack for you, my lady.”
Cele remembered the appalled expression he’d flashed at her scratched, bruised, and bloody legs. He might not approve of her appearance, but he was all politeness now.
Suddenly, the style of clothing worn by the women in the crowd impressed itself on Cele’s awareness. All of the women wore long skirts, or tunics over loose pants bloused at the ankles. Some of the market-goers were stealing glances at her, while others stared openly.
Cele pretended not to notice and handed Ranulf the pack. “Lead on.” The sooner she was out of here, the better.
She followed Ranulf through the crowd in the same direction Dahleven had taken. He seemed to have the knack, or was it a Talent? for moving smoothly through crowds, because they quickly reached a clear space near a massive wall of pink granite. A set of steps wide enough for six men to stand abreast led up to a large arch, but beside the pair of sentries only two other people were on the steps. Or two and a half.
At the top of the stairs, a pretty, strawberry-blonde woman stood embracing Dahleven. Comfortably snuggled into his left arm, a one-year-old child patted his face. It was a beautiful, heart-warming, family tableau.
Cele felt sick.
CHAPTER NINE
The young woman and Dahleven turned, his arm around her shoulders, and disappeared beneath the arch.
Married. The son-of-a-bitch was married, with a child, and he had kissed her. He had kissed her, and she had enjoyed it and wanted more. And he was married.
Shock evaporated under the rising heat of righteous anger. The bastard. The two-faced, sneaking, lying bastard. No, not lying. He hadn’t said he was free to kiss whomever he pleased. He’d just done so. And she’d allowed it. Welcomed it. She’d let her heart do her thinking for her. Again. Her stupid, impulsive heart.
“My lady?” Ranulf stood, one foot on the bottom step, waiting for her.
She’d stopped her in her tracks. How long had she been standing there, staring? Cele returned to life and followed Ranulf up the stone steps. How obvious had her pause been? How much had shown on her face? Would Ranulf report her stunned expression? Would Dahleven be amused? Or frustrated that his plans for seduction were now spoiled?
Ranulf led her through wide hallways of polished pink granite flecked with black. Shiny bits embedded in the stone sparkled in the light slanting through clerestory windows. They passed a huge rectangular room on the left, which connected to the hall through six arches. Wide ledges ran the length of the hall, ending in a broad dais. Three rectangular fire-pits split the hall in half lengthwise, still leaving a wide expanse on either side. Elaborately decorated fire-hoods flared high above them. Cele stopped to look, but Ranulf quickly urged her onward. Then he led her up a wide curving stairway of black polished stone.
The finials on the bottom newels seemed to bear no relation to those on the top posts. Carved of the same gleaming stone as the steps, a gilded boar and mountain lion seemed to leap upward. At the top a man and woman faced each other across the stair, beautiful and noble. Cele would have liked to admire the workmanship, but Ranulf didn’t pause, leading her across a long curving mezzanine before climbing another flight.
She lost track of hallways and turns and stairs before Ranulf stopped in front of a round topped door, swung it inward, and stepped back to bow her in.
The room was narrower than it was deep. Wooden cabinets lined the far wall. An abstract mosaic on the floor disappeared beneath a tightly woven rug, and ledges ran along either side of the chamber, much like in the great hall downstairs. A thick feather bed lay on the deep ledges to the right, cloaked by heavy draperies. Thinner cushions upholstered in rich burgundy cloth softened the narrower window seats on the left side. High narrow windows cut the thick walls, letting in the afternoon light.
“Thora will attend you soon, my lady.” With that prediction, Ranulf set down her pack, bowed himself out, and shut the door.
Alone for the first time in days, with no one hurrying her along, the strain and stress of the last week finally caught up with her. She wanted nothing more than what that son-of-a-bitch Dahleven had promised her: rest, a bath, and food.
The feather bed looked plump and inviting. Cele ran a hand over the intricately loomed coverlet. It was soft and smooth, but her roughened skin caught on the fine threads. She looked more closely at her hands. They were dry and scabbed in many places—dirt and blood crusted her nails. She scratched her scalp and tried to think how long it had been since she’d washed. Too long. She couldn’t climb into that fine bed as she was, so she lay down on the rug.
The floor was hard, but no worse than the ground she’d slept on for the last five nights, and it had the advantage of having no hidden lumps or stones. I’ll just lie down for a moment until Thora gets here. Cele stretched out, luxuriating in the freedom to move without concern for implying an unintended, and unwanted, intimacy.
*
Dahleven clasped his father’s arm in greeting before Neven pulled him into a hug and thumped him on the back with strong arms. The familiar aroma of leather and pipe smoke enveloped him. Dahleven returned the embrace with warmth.
“The sentries gave no warning of you, Dahl. Are they growing lax?” Neven asked when they pulled apart. He sat in one of the chairs by the cold fire grate and filled his pipe.
Dahleven sat before answering. The large, well-padded seat fit him perfectly, and the curved arms were polished dark and smooth by years of hands resting there. “I used the tunnels, Father. Once we were in, i
t was the quickest way, and I knew you’d want this news before you convened the Althing.”
Neven’s sharp grey eyes focused intently on him. When Dahleven was younger, that riveting gaze had made him want to squirm. Now, he returned it levelly. “The Tewakwe aren’t raiding our caravans.”
Neven’s response was an eyebrow lifted in increased scrutiny, but he didn’t interrupt.
Dahleven quickly outlined his observations of the combined camp of Nuvinland Outcasts and Tewakwe Renegades. “We’re meant to believe that the Tewakwe have injured us, and I suspect the Tewakwe must believe we’ve attacked them.” Dahleven’s voice dropped slightly. “I couldn’t tell whether it was Renegades or honorable Tewakwe who believed us to be Outcasts, that attacked us and killed Sorn.”
“Sorn!” Neven pulled his pipe from his mouth. “He was a good man. His father will feel the loss sorely. And Aenid! She loved him as another brother, I think.”
Dahleven saw the look of understanding in his father’s eyes, and was grateful Neven’s tact prevented direct sympathy. “Yes, she’ll take it hard.”
Neven stroked the ends of his forked and braided beard, then returned to the main problem. “This is too coordinated to be mere raiding for profit. There is a larger purpose in it.”
“I am convinced of it.” Dahleven’s voice was harsh, knowing what he must say next. “We have traitors among us.”
Dahleven would have smiled as his father’s hand went unconsciously to the knife at his side, but his news was too grim. As he relayed Knut’s betrayal and Lindimer’s death, Dahleven’s hand fisted on the arm of the chair.
“The Althing will cast him out. But he cannot be alone in this.” Neven’s voice was tight. “Our troubles are deeper and darker than we thought.”
“There is more.”
Neven lifted both brows this time. In response, Dahleven cleared the unexpected nervousness from his throat, and spoke of Lady Celia Montrose, knowing that nothing escaped his father’s acute perception.
*
“My lady!”
A sharp, fear-edged voice and firm hands jerked Cele to wakefulness. For a moment she didn’t know where she was, or why this round-faced woman with coiled, graying braids was hovering over her, gently slapping her face.
Cele pushed the woman’s hands away. “I’m awake, already.” She sat up and tossed aside the light cover that had been put over her, but the woman hastily covered her legs again. Cele decided to let her have her way for now and stayed sitting. She knew where she was again. I’m in Quartzholm. And this must be Thora. She didn’t know who the man standing by the door was though, the one holding a pitcher and basin and with towels draped over his arm.
“Fid, put those down.” Thora gestured to the rear of the room.
Fid crossed the room, opened one of the tall cabinet doors, and disappeared inside. When he returned empty-handed, Cele saw what the towels had concealed: Fid was missing the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand. The stumps looked red and barely healed.
“That will be all, Fid.”
Fid nodded a bow to Thora and bent more fully to Cele.
She felt awkward in the face of so much courtesy. “Thank you,” was all she could think to say.
Surprise flashed across the man’s face, then was quickly concealed as he turned to go.
“My lady, you needn’t thank him or even speak to him; he’s a thief serving his sentence.”
Before Cele could think what to say to that, Thora bustled on. “They told me you’d want to tidy up, so I had Fid bring water, but I can see now that won’t do. You’ll want more than just a freshening. A hot bath will do you good. Do you feel well enough to walk? Should I call the Healer?” Thora peered at Cele with sharp eyes.
“I’m fine. I was just resting. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“On the floor?” Thora’s tone was incredulous.
“As you noticed, I need more than just ‘a freshening.’ I didn’t want to dirty the bed.”
Thora gave Cele a quick, appraising glance. “That should not concern you. There are more than enough folk here to keep things clean and tidy, and most are in need of something to do.” Thora’s brisk manner suggested that she had little patience with idlers. “Now, let’s find you a robe and we’ll get you to the baths.” She bustled to the back of the room. Her sturdy body moved with more energy than Cele would have thought possible, fluttering the edges of her long tunic over her ample hips and flapping the hems of her loose-legged pants. Several keys hung from chains pinned at her waist by an ornate brooch, jingling and chiming as she moved. She had just opened a closet when a sharp rap sounded at the door.
Cele started toward the door, but Thora hustled past her and reached it first. She gave Cele an admonishing shake of her head, then opened the door just enough to speak with whomever stood in the hall. Cele couldn’t hear what the visitor said, just the low rumble of his voice, but she could tell Thora wasn’t pleased.
“But the lady hasn’t bathed yet!”
Another low rumble.
“Just a moment.” Thora shut the door with an abrupt gesture that dropped the well-oiled latch into place with an audible snap. “My lady, Kon Neven requests your presence immediately.”
With a gentle but firm pressure on Cele’s back, Thora directed Cele into the alcove hidden behind one of the wooden doors, where Fid had left the water and towels.
“It’s just as well I brought that water, after all. When Kon Neven says ‘immediately,’ there’s no ‘in just a moment’ to it; he is the Master of the House and Jarl of Quartzholm, after all, not to mention Kon. But I think you may be allowed to wash your face, at least.” Thora suited her actions to her words, pouring water into a basin, wetting a cloth, then combing Cele’s hair and braiding it while Cele washed her face and arms.
The dirty brown of the water in the basin appalled Cele. At least it’s not on my face any more.
Thora handed Cele a towel just as the messenger rapped impatiently on the door again. “There’s no more time, my lady. Where are your clothes?”
“These are my clothes.”
Thora looked appalled. “All of them?”
Cele was acutely aware of Thora’s disapproving glance at her scratched, bruised, bare legs. Another sharp rap on the door forestalled any comment. Thora shook her head before hurrying to the door, but she opened it with elaborate dignity. “Lady Celia is pleased to attend Kon Neven.”
Cele suppressed a smile at the consequence Thora tried to give her and joined the man waiting in the hall. He was dressed in cloth pants and a shirt with a banded collar and long, loose sleeves under a green suede tunic. Embroidered in red on his left breast, the stylized depiction of a hawk swooped head-on, as though the viewer were prey. A long dagger hung at the man’s waist. His eyes widened a fraction when he saw Cele, but he didn’t waste time indulging his surprise. He gave her the barest of bows, then turned to lead her through more hallways.
He didn’t take her to the large audience chamber Cele had seen below, but higher, up two more flights of stairs. He stopped in front of a beautifully carved double door and rapped once.
Another man immediately opened the door. After a murmured exchange with her escort, the other man announced, “Lady Celia Montrose,” and bowed her into the room.
The nearly square chamber smelled faintly of pipe smoke and was sparsely furnished. On one side two comfortable looking chairs were drawn close to the unlit fireplace; a long oval table of polished black stone filled the other side, surrounded by chairs. Several tall candelabra stood in the corners of the room. Two men stood near a deep window embrasure on the right wall.
The man facing the door immediately drew Cele’s gaze. Even lounging against the green and blue draperies, the man had an alertness, a controlled power that warned Cele that she had just stepped into a lion’s den. He didn’t move from his seemingly relaxed posture, but she knew from his single lifted brow that he missed nothing of her dirty, bare-legged, bedraggled condit
ion. She resisted the urge to squirm under his assessing scrutiny.
The other man didn’t lean against the wall. He stood facing the first man, his hand lifted in mid-gesture, as though Cele’s arrival had interrupted a vigorous debate. He turned deliberately and precisely, dropping his hand to his side. His body stilled to such an extent he removed himself from consideration. Cele’s attention immediately returned to the first man.
He shrugged away from the wall and came toward her, moving his sturdy muscular frame with the same unconscious grace that Cele had seen in Dahleven. A flare of anger threatened to distract her as he surfaced in her thoughts. She wrenched her mind back to the present.
The middle-aged man who approached her was tall, with light brown hair braided down the back of his head to his shoulders. Wide streaks of gray swept back from his temples; more showed in his beard, which fell halfway down his chest and was braided in two forks. But his eyes were what captured Cele’s attention. Pale blue, ringed with a darker grey, they were bottomless as a mountain lake and just as sharp and cold. Had she thought him a lion before? He was more like a hawk. His eyes missed nothing, and he seemed poised to swoop and attack.
Kon Neven, as Cele supposed him to be, stopped four feet from her and regarded her silently. The seconds stretched to a minute, then more. Should I bow or curtsey or something?
No. Not yet. She had never liked these sorts of games, but she knew how to play them. This guy reminded Cele of the Director of the Emergency Services Center. He knew his power and how to use it. He despised weakness and rewarded competence. She could deal with this. She lifted her chin, looked him in the eye, and waited.
Finally, he spoke. “Welcome to Quartzholm, Lady Montrose.”
His doubt of an honorific she’d never sought didn’t threaten her, so she ignored it. “Thank you, my lord.” Cele wasn’t sure of the correct way to honor someone who was the Kon and Jarl of the Province. A curtsey in shorts somehow seemed absurd, so she bowed, but not too deeply. Some instinct warned her not to give too much, too soon.
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