Renar said nothing. There was nothing he could say that would not acknowledge what Tiras was feeling.
“They used her to blood the stones of the Church.”
Then Renar, too, turned away.
“I know what you’re feeling, Your Highness. If I’d been willing to help—if I’d been there ... But it’s a trap, and a foolish one. Five remain, and those five will aid us as they can.” He reached over and suddenly damped the wick of the lamp. “And we’ll win. We’ll remember.”
The shadows freed them and comforted them.
Lady Verena sat in the comfort of her rooms; she had retreated there after a grueling session with her grandfather, Lord Cosgrove, in a mood that was less than pleasant.
Lord Cosgrove was no fool; he had had the presence of mind to reveal his plans to her alone of all their family. But those plans bordered on lunacy. She wondered what he had been thinking, to make them, or to agree to them, when it put the whole of the family at near-inconceivable risk. She had restrained herself enough to nod in near-silent agreement after her initial show of shock—and that seemed to mollify the old man somewhat, but she was not now certain that he wouldn’t have her watched, or have her actions monitored.
His lack of faith both amused her and irritated her greatly; one day, the family would be in her keeping—did he think she would be fool enough to allow anyone to risk it rashly? It was more than time to take matters into her own hands.
The hour that had passed, with the comforts of a particularly strong snifter of brandy, had mellowed that mood enough that she had the presence of mind to write. The quill in her hand didn’t shake at all.
HRH Duke Jordan of Illan,
My scouts have located Renar of Maran. They have discovered who his contacts are and where those contacts can be found. For this reason, I consider it expedient to request a summoning of the Lesser Cabal at your earliest convenience.
Your servant,
Lady Verena of Cosgrove.
chapter seventeen
An inch above the ground the quill cast a wavering shadow.
“Good. Very good. Keep it steady.”
Darin didn’t answer; even the effort of listening threatened the tenuous hold he had on both gate and feather. The warm tickle of sweat rolling down his cheeks made him wonder how he could be suffering from physical exertion when he’d barely moved a muscle in the last two hours.
The quill floated gently to floor before he realized his mistake. Trethar’s frown had already turned thunderous.
“Is that your idea of concentration?” he shouted, the last word more of an epithet than his cursing.
“No, sir.” Darin said softly.
A knock at the door spared him the rest of the lecture that was sure to follow. Almost gratefully, he rose to answer it.
“Darin?”
“Erin!”
She laughed at the look on his face. “We’ve got a meeting. Can you come?”
Darin nodded before Trethar could answer.
“So soon?” Trethar murmured.
“Soon? It’s been almost four days since you’ve sequestered yourselves away here.”
“Four days.” The tone of his voice told her what he thought of them. “Ah, well. Let’s get this over with quickly, then.” He rose as well, looking more annoyed than tired.
“Where have you been?” Darin whispered as Erin threw an arm around his shoulder.
“All over Dagothrin. Several times.”
“Is everything all right?”
She nodded. “Better than we thought. How are the lessons?” She glanced at the strained lines of his face and changed the subject. “We’ve planned the route into the city. We’ve a decent chance of getting to our destinations in one piece.”
“Who’d you talk to?”
“Save it for the meeting.” She stopped then and hugged him. The faint hint of new sweat lingered as she pulled back. “It’s good to see you.”
His smile was shy.
“So. There you have it. Hildy, the merchant who brought us in, will leave slightly early, and by the north gates. She’s due in to the mines.” Renar glanced at Erin.
Tiras nodded.
“Trethar will travel in the wagons, at least as far as the gate. Erin and Darin will wait about a hundred yards from the gate, and they’ll go as far as the royal library”—he could not bring himself to call it a church—“with the men who make it through.
“Tiras and I will start our entry into the palace proper at that point.”
“Timing?” Erin asked softly; it was still a point that made her nervous.
Renar shrugged. “We’ll chance it, Lady.” He began to roll up the map. “When the men have gone past Kevler Road, Ruth and Kaarel will start to hang notices in the area; let’s hope what they say will prove true.”
“When do we send word?”
“This eve. We have one more word to wait upon.”
They started to rise, and Anders opened the door.
“Sir?” he said to Tiras.
“What?”
“There are three men who are here; they ask an audience with you.”
“Tell them that I’m indisposed at the moment.”
“Sir.”
“Indisposed?” came a voice from the hall. It was familiar. “The hells you are.”
Erin shook her head as both Darin and Trethar tensed. Darin relaxed slowly; Trethar grew more agitated.
Anders, however, looked more annoyed than worried as he swung around.
Lord Stenton Cosgrove, attired in distinctly flamboyant clothing, pushed past the manservant and entered the room.
“Stent,” Tiras said curtly. “What are you doing here?”
“I might ask the same of you, but I won’t waste the question, as I already know the answer.” He smiled, nodded at Erin, looked carefully over Darin, and raised an eyebrow at Trethar. “Patriarch?” he asked.
Trethar’s frown deepened.
“Uh, no, sir.” Darin said softly. He stepped forward, self consciously putting the staff of Culverne between himself and Lord Cosgrove’s astonished glance. “I am.”
“You? Gods, Renar!” He shook his head and turned to the door. “Come on in!” he shouted.
Anders’ face was almost purple. “Sir, I really must insist—”
Cospatric entered the room, followed quickly by an older man in similar uniform. Erin didn’t recognize him.
Tiras and Renar did.
“Lord Beaton!”
“Tiber!”
Stenton Cosgrove took the time to enjoy himself immensely; it was a small luxury, and it could be afforded.
“In Cosgrove colors,” Lord Beaton said. He bowed, his mouth turned in an ironic study of a smile. “I’ve taken temporary leave of any sense I once had.”
He rose, and Erin took the opportunity to study his face. He was an older man, perhaps not quite so old as Stenton Cosgrove, but the years had etched themselves more heavily into the lines of his face. His eyes were deep-set, and Erin thought them each a different color, one green and one brown. In the light it was hard to tell. Pride was there, and a certain sternness that spoke of concealed anger.
“Lord Beaton,” Renar said, this time more quietly. “This is a risk, is it not?”
“It is.” He looked around the room. “It is indeed, Your Majesty.” Here he bowed, and this time the bow was low. “But I had to see for myself; only a fool trusts the word of a Cosgrove to stand on its own.”
“You wound us,” Stenton said. But he smiled.
“Trust you to take that as a compliment.” Tiber’s voice was wry. He spoke again to Renar. “Stent says that you’ve a plan to take back Marantine.”
Renar nodded.
“We’ve already wasted time bargaining,” Lord Cosgrove said. “We won’t waste more.”
A flash of mild annoyance crossed Lord Beaton’s face and then subsided. “As you say.”
“You’re bargaining for Maran?” Renar said to his grandfather.
&nb
sp; “Maran has never been known for its ability in that quarter.” A challenge there.
Renar refused to take it. “Which lands?”
“Sennet.”
“Ah.” Renar smiled darkly. “Those lands are currently in Jordan’s keeping. Done.”
The three men nodded in unison; formal acknowledgment. Usually there would be some celebratory drink and the drawing of contracts—but in this place and time, the nod would suffice.
“Cospatric?” Lord Cosgrove said, stepping back to let his captain speak.
“Lord Beaton’s offered the use of his family guards. We’ve four of the clothier’s guild on hand to construct a few uniforms.”
“How many men?” Renar said, unable to stop his eyes from widening with unexpected hope.
“Eight patrols of eight. We’ll guard your route from the front, Renar. We’ll pull up the back as you pass us.”
Sixty-four men. Renar turned to Lord Beaton. He knew how important it was to be a king, to act the part. And because he knew it, he did not, and could not, speak. But his expression was eloquent. Sixty-four men, all trained, all hidden—it was more than he had thought to ask for, except perhaps from the Hearts in his dreams.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Lord Beaton said softly, angrily. That anger was strong and supple; it turned inward painfully. “I’ve served as long as the other five, but perhaps a little less well. I hear you were in the merchant’s quarter.”
“Yes. And for them, I thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Win.”
Something in those words spoke of loss. No one asked, and Lord Beaton volunteered nothing.
Tiras was already busy unfurling the map. “Shall we begin this again?”
It was Cospatric who nodded, coming forward with his hand already beneath his chin in a reflexive gesture of thought. “Eight patrols,” he murmured to himself as a frown grew. “That’s a fair stretch of territory. Does it have to be that route?”
“Speed over subterfuge in this case, wouldn’t you agree?”
He thought about it, but it was clear that he had already done so for some time. He nodded. The nod was grim. “The men’ll wear small flashes to distinguish our patrols from theirs. I hope we don’t lose many.”
Renar closed his eyes, then swallowed. He opened his eyes.
“Right. This is the plan.”
Cospatric listened, wincing in two places, and he glanced at Erin and the patriarch of Culverne.
“No, Renar,”Stenton said softly. “The last part of your plan bears changing, but it means your messenger has no leeway.”
“Speak plainly.”
“Very well. Verena and I have talked long about this. There was a council meeting that was to take place in three weeks, two days.”
Renar frowned. “Too late.”
“It will now take place in ten days. The full council. In the palace’s grand chamber.”
Renar’s eyes grew wide. “How—”
“It’s foolish to split the three of you—or four, if you plan to take old Tiras.” He smiled, and then continued briskly. “Your targets will all be in one place.”
“But how—”
“If you fail,” Lord Cosgrove said, allowing his grandson no words, “we will all perish. Every single one of your contacts, every single one of your allies.”
Lord Beaton nodded quietly; his smile reminded everyone of the gallows. “A guarantee of good faith,” he explained. No one needed the explanation.
“But—”
“Verena knows exactly where you’ve been and why; she will offer this information to the council on that evening. If you fail in your attack, Cosgrove will still continue, in one fashion or another. I’m sorry,” he had the grace to add, “but ... it’s the family.”
“Stent ...”
“You’ve no choice in the timing; you must attack that eve. Lady Verena has called the meeting on a matter of some urgency: you see, she’s received inside word that Prince Renar of Marantine plans his attack in just under three weeks, with the mobilization of the last of the resistance.” His smile was most unpleasant. “At the meeting she will give them her information, and they will discuss the best method of dealing with him.”
Renar laughed, then. The laugh was loud and long.
“Stent, this is the best thing you’ve ever done.” He looked to Erin, his eyes alight. “Lady, this truly is our battle, then. From start to finish.”
“Indeed,” Stenton interjected. “But it had best be the right finish. Verena has been trained by Tiras. He’ll vouch for her. She’ll hold her hand until you’ve made your way to the council.”
Renar nodded, sobered. “Tell her, Stent. Tell her that Jordan is mine.”
“You’re a Cosgrove, Renar. He’s ours,” his grandfather whispered softly. “Ours, at last.” He held out a hand, and Renar shook it.
Lord Beaton took a step toward the door. “Cospatric?”
The man in question nodded. “'We’ve got a lot of work to do if we’re to pull our troops together.” He saluted Renar; it was crisp but less than perfect. “When this is over, I want my inn back.”
Renar nodded.
“And I want you to keep out of it for the first few months. I can’t take another one of the brawls you start while I’m rebuilding. Got that?”
Renar shook his hand firmly.
“Do you do that everywhere?” Erin whispered.
“Not on purpose.” He shook his head. “Gentlemen.”
“We’ll see you on the front,” Lord Beaton said.
As Renar looked askance, he added, “I’ll be with one of the patrols.”
He was risking everything, then. Everything.
“You didn’t bargain well enough, if you only get the Sennet lands out of this.”
“I’ll get what I want,” Lord Beaton replied. His voice was cold and hard. “This is the true fight; the true test. This is what we’ve needed.” He straightened himself out. He was not a tall man, but neither was he short. In all eyes there, he stood very tall indeed.
“Ten days, then.”
“Ten days.”
Only one task remained: informing the renegade palace guards of the plan and timing of their arrival. Word was sent through Cosgrove. The messenger left, with writs and papers, through the south gate. It would take him time to double round, avoiding the eyes of the city’s walls.
It was time well spent.
The messenger was a young man. Once it had been his intention to apply for the palace guard, to serve the king and Marantine in its stand against the Empire.
Instead, he had found himself faced with the loss of king and kingdom, and his dreams were burned to ground in the second night of fires.
Out of the ashes, those dreams had been reborn.
Oh, the armor he wore bore no crest and no colors, the horse that he rode belonged to no royal cavalry unit. But the message he carried held all of those things. Words on paper, about acquisitions and territories, in which the right eyes would find the right words.
The king had come. The line had come.
Against such two, the Empire must surely fail.
And he had been chosen for the task that would finally set it all in motion.
It was hard to carry himself with anything but righteous pride. It was hard to pass the gates of the city and the guards that served the traitor without issuing the challenge that should have been issued five years before.
For the sake of the king, he did all of that.
For the sake of the king, he would do more.
The ten days passed slowly.
Renar practiced caution as if it were religion. He knew that Lady Verena’s message to the council would have already set in motion the rudiments of full-scale alert.
But Dagothrin was his city; he knew it as well as a Cosgrove could—or better. He avoided the city guard patrols with ease borne of long practice. He melted from sight before he left Tiras’ manor and returned without being seen. Of this he could be certain.
He visited his grandfather’s house three times. Each time he stopped at the flagstones; each time he bowed there. Whether they had been willing or no, he granted both his respect and his pain to those whose blood browned the stones.
Cosgrove itself was in a small uproar; he had never seen the like within its stately walls. Oh, there had been noise, yes, and shouting—neither Lisbeth or Stenton had ever been particularly quiet when cordoned off with family—but never had there been this quiver of excitement.
It was not good spirits, exactly; there was too much that was angry, even vicious, about it. But it was hope for change, hope for victory, both of which had been unlooked for. Hope was a gift, one that blood would be spilled to obtain, but no less precious for all that—the shame of survival, kept hidden for so long, might in one swift stroke be broken. And be justified.
Cospatric drilled his men in the courtyard; this was not unusual, as Stenton hastened to inform his grandson. What was unusual was the presence of the uncrowned king.
Renar sighed as he did his inspection at Lord Cosgrove’s behest. He sighed even more deeply as one or two of the younger men made haste to draw their swords and lay them at his feet, as if they were tempered hearts. He felt his grandfather’s mild frown and knew that even should they succeed, Maran and Cosgrove would have some struggle between them yet. But Lord Cosgrove did not discipline these guards of Cosgrove for their impulsive actions.
Renar spoke to these men seldom, and he measured his words, surprised at how difficult it had become. No flowery speech would serve him here as it had done in the past, and he could no longer seek comfort in the guise of the half-witted buffoon. These men were going to fight for him. Many would die. He owed them a leader that they would be proud to follow.
He paid as much of that debt as he could, thinking bitterly of how much better Gregory would have been.
Ah, Uncle, he thought, and the word was a curse, that, too, you will pay for.
“When it’s over,” he would say to Cospatric, “I’ll want a good drink.”
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