“Liana,” he said, with a smile, as she approached the bar. Pedin knew her name, but he also knew well enough not to use it. She had not delved too deep into her past with him, but he knew the dangers that surrounded her. “It’s been some time.”
“Yes, Pedin,” she replied, grasping his upper arm in greeting. “Too long. Do you have something for me?”
Pedin probed his lips with his tongue, ducked behind the bar, and then returned with a note, folded and sealed with dark wax. It was Pedin she had entrusted to receive her missives from Marsen Crake, who despite his sordid dealings, still went through great trouble to distance himself from her, and she was sure, many others that he dealt with.
Jethra cracked the seal and opened the note. It described some noble to the north that she was to seek out next, a description of his features, and how to find him. She folded the note up when she had memorized it and touched it to the flame of a stub of white candle set in a pewter candlestick on the bar in front of her. The parchment went up quickly, and she tossed it behind her, into the air.
There were a few jeers, though just as many rousing cheers, from drunken voices, before the paper fell to the wood-planked floor and burned out. “Rook’s breath!” shouted one such drunkard who was nearby, as he nearly fell to floor.
“More danger?” asked Pedin.
Jethra nodded, managed a bitter grin. “It’s a living.”
The small man knew this was dark jest. He knew at least pieces of her past, and the web she now found herself entangled in.
“Why not leave? Walk away?” he asked. “Go west, or anyplace else but here.”
“I can’t, I…” The children laughing, then screaming… her dark-haired raven running, waving hands, shouting… white-hot fire and razor-sharp spears… blood… dark, red, everywhere... “I…” She shook her head.
Pedin put a tankard of ale down on the counter, froth spilling over the edges. Jethra picked it up and drank down the bitter concoction. She’d never been much for drink, but some nights were more difficult than others, and this night she had more than one.
Later, as the night wore on, she found herself walking the cobblestone streets, past torches set in iron sconces, casting dancing shadows of red and black on the pale, stone walls. Her feet were sluggish beneath her, and a passing man in a roushspun cloak dared to grab her arm as she went. He backed away sputtering and with a sizeable gash in his gut. Let him think on that, the next time he reaches in the dark for a woman not known to him. She chuckled to herself and sheathed the dagger again.
On the outskirts of the city, she found a small abandoned barn, with a rusting scythe resting atop of a worn wagon with split wheels. The thatched roof was falling in, and the far wall was leaning hard to one side.
Jethra fell to a sitting position in front of the barn and took the pack off of her back. She drew out the black chest, the wooden box, and the canister. She carefully removed one of the glass globes and twisted it apart. In one half she poured oil from one of the vials, and in the other tapped some of the dark powder from the wooden box, which she had tilted to one side. She then pressed the halves back together, and stuffed wicking into the small depression on the outside. Jethra drew her dagger and struck flint against the blade, catching fire to the wick.
She lumbered to her feet and made her way over to the barn. Fire was snaking its way down the wicking of the glass globe, as she held it high above her head. She gritted her teeth and heaved it into the barn. When it struck an inside wall, it broke into a dozen pieces, the oil, powder, and flame, instantly mixing. A massive fireball roared up and set the barn ablaze faster than even she would have imagined. Within seconds the whole structure was surrounded by licking flames of orange and yellow and blue, the old wood snapping and hissing, tendrils of smoke rising into the moonless sky.
Jethra moved back and stared at the flames, the intensity of the heat strong on her face. Tears came, and this time she didn’t stop them. In moments she heard yelling and then trampling feet. She stepped back into the shadows of a nearby granary, as men arrived, shouting for water and aid, but her eyes were still on the flames. Let them burn too… let them all burn...
Chapter Ten
WILLIAM
William could not believe what we had heard. His head felt cloudy, dull, as he walked the chill corridors of the castle at Lyle. He trailed a hand across cold stone for support, but then met an intersection of passages, and had to move away from the wall, arms hanging at his sides, feet barely moving him forward. Despite the cold air, he suddenly felt hot, loosing the ties at the neck of his tunic, and pulling open the collar.
“I’m going to give it back to you, Will,” he heard Byron saying again, as they sat in Byron’s chamber, the words now echoing in his head as if bouncing off of the inside of his skull. “I’ll make you the fifth Earl of Erris, give you your family lands back. It’s what you’ve always wanted.”
“It’s what my father always wanted,” he heard himself reply. “Likely my grandfather as well.” Not me. Never. He’d spent too much time watching his father obsess over the past, over what might have been. When he was a child he drank in the tales, dreamed himself even, of such things. But when he got older and still found his father telling the same stories, having the same imaginings, it just made him ill.
Byron furrowed his brow at his words, a bit dismayed, but overcame the obstacle as he often did, and smiled again. “Think of it: a title, lands of your own, income. Why you could, you could…” Drown in misery. Nothing good came of rank or title. Then again, perhaps it could make things easier with Alaina. They wouldn’t have to hide anymore, perhaps he could court her respectably, and they could marry.
Will found himself on the wide half-circle balcony off of the eastern tower where the house garden was kept. It was here amidst the potted shrubs and flowers, set upon a flagstone courtyard, that he and Alaina often came. Beyond was the wide, dark, night sky. The full moon was back, bathing everything in a light glow. He found a stone bench and fell onto it, looking out at the sky and the lights of the city beyond.
“Why did you leave me?” he whispered, letting his head fall in his hands.
“I haven’t left, I’m right here.” A voice in the darkness. Soft, friendly. He looked up, squinting his eyes in the gloom. He made out a slim figure in a light blue dress fringed with white ruffles. For a moment he thought it was Alaina, but then instead of auburn hair he saw two golden braids that trailed down each of the woman’s shoulders.
“Vira Feiron?” The young lady was a friend to Alaina, though they’d never exchanged more than passing pleasantries. She was the daughter of some lord or other, of low enough station that Will couldn’t remember quite who he was.
A laugh came back at him, and she stood up, and made her way over. He leaned back when she was near him reflexively, and she arched an eyebrow. She put a hand to her breast and said, “Am I quite so frightening?”
“No, it’s not– never mind. I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”
“Ah, that I understand.” She took a seat next to Will. Close. A little too much so. He could feel her warmth, much in contrast to the cold bench and cool night air. Despite this, she pulled a dark blue cloak about herself and drew the hood up. She shivered. “I come here often, to clear my head, when it is late like this, and no one is around.”
It occurred to Will it was quite late, much too late for a young lady to be out in the darkness, much less so with a man such as himself. “Let me walk you back to your room.”
Vira laughed, throwing her head back, her cloak hood slipping back to her shoulders, her golden hair visible again. “Your charms may have worked on Alaina, but they won’t on me, William Erris.”
Will felt his face growing hot despite himself. “That’s not what I, I didn’t mean—”
“Oh, you’re easy,” said Vira. “Alaina was right.”
Will got to his feet and glared down at her, a hand on his hip. “What is that supposed to mean?”
&nb
sp; Vira just smirked and shook her head. “Never mind, Lord Erris, never mind.”
“I’m no lord,” he said, glowering. He squinted at her smiling face, trying to figure out what she was on about, but finally just shook his head. “Freeze then, see if I care.” He turned and headed back toward the relative warmth of the castle halls.
“I’ll be fine m’lord” he heard her say, her voice trailing off as he moved inside.
He decided to head at once to his chamber in the lower levels, but as he was making his way there, he decided instead to make a stop. The conversations of late between the Lord Lewin Laswick and various well-to-do officials in Lyle would not leave his mind despite his best efforts. The man had kept close to Byron’s side, and had even managed to acquire Byron’s old rooms, not so far from where Byron now slept, in the king’s privy chambers. So, Will decided to make his way there, just to look, just to assure himself that, at least for the evening, all was alright.
When he came to the heavy door that marked Lord Laswick’s rooms, he stopped. All was quiet, only his own breath making any sound. He shook his head for the fool he was. What did he expect? What would a lord be doing so late in the evening? Will was just about to turn around and head back downstairs, when he heard a noise from within. He only just had time to duck into the shadows of a nearby corner, when Lord Laswick’s door swung open, and out he came, a pair of men in tow.
Dark-haired and mustached Serran Odell, a merchant in Fazzil Suk’s employ, and Allister Caldridge, a silver-haired minor lord in the south, followed him, the three in the midst of a conversation in hushed tones. Will thought to turn the other way and run to his chamber as fast as his legs would take him, but then, here was Lord Laswick again with two other members of the Privy Council. Not such a strange happening, perhaps, but then the hour was late, and there were no particular concerns going on that would necessitate such a meeting, at least not to Will’s knowledge. Perhaps a late-night meal? No, he doubted that.
The three headed down the hallway toward him, were nearly upon him, but he held his breath and managed to sink back into the corner as much as he could manage. Likely blinded by the torches on the walls, they passed him by without comment. Then, when they rounded a bend in the hall and were out of view, Will crept along after, as quietly as he could manage.
“Things are moving quickly now,” the portly Lewin Laswick was saying. “Tell your master to have his ships ready. They must move in to the Kaspen Sea in as great numbers as can be managed without drawing attention.
“Fazzil Suk wants your assurances that all will go as planned,” Serran Odell responded. “Personal assurances. Fazzil Suk does not suffer losses. This is your doing, and he is happy to lend aid, but remember that your own resources are on the line, if you want us to proceed.”
Lord Laswick stopped in the hall and rounded on Serran Odell. Allister Caldridge stopped as well, though he was a bit ahead, and so ended up looking back at them, little emotion on his face. Will came up short and pressed himself against the cool stone of the corridor wall, down the hall. He had to lean forward and strain to hear what was going on, as the trio was a bit too far down the corridor, and he dared not move while they were stopped, and all was still and quiet.
Lord Laswick was responding in a as loud a whisper as Will had ever heard. Will gripped the wall with moist hands, leaning forward, straining to make out what was being said.
“The Great Fazzil Suk… me to stake my own moderate resources… so much to gain in our arrangement…”
Will strained further, the words trailing off down the hall. He dared to shuffle a few steps forward.
“Must I remind you…” Lord Laswick was continuing, “…the Duke has deep pockets as well… Fazzil Suk has much to gain when I wrest control of the realm.”
Will’s eyes went wide, he could not believe what he had heard. He had to tell Byron, he must know Lord Laswick was a traitorous… he wasn’t able to finish the thought, as his hands slipped on the wall, and his legs, in an awkward position as they were, bent forward, and he crashed into the hallway.
Lord Laswick, Serran Odell, and Allister Caldridge, all stood over him, looking down at his pitiful fallen form in the torchlight. Lord Laswick glared, hands on his hips. “What do we have here?” It was more than a question.
In that moment Will felt very real fear. Lord Laswick had the power to make an end to him, in more fashions than he wanted to consider. But then he remembered Byron and hardened his resolve. He stood and grabbed Lord Laswick by the tunic. He bit off his next words with as much anger as he had ever felt. “Come. With. Me.”
Will then proceeded to pull Lord Laswick down the hall, leaving Odell and Caldridge standing with their mouths agape. He brought him to the door of Byron’s privy chamber and knocked with a heavy fist.
Byron was there in but a moment, looking red-eyed and very much like he had been woken from a deep sleep. Confusion turned to fear on his face, and he demanded, “What is it? What has happened? Is everyone alright?”
Will remembered in that moment the loss and tumult that his friend had gone through over the last few months and felt a pang of guilt and pity. But then he pulled Lord Laswick into the room and swung the door shut.
“Come now, come now,” Lord Lewin Laswick was saying. “These are words of the worst type of fancy, certainly. I don’t blame him, Prince Byron, he is young, new to the ways at court.”
Will seethed, gritting his teeth and glaring at Lord Laswick. Not only was he of an age with Byron, but he’d grown up with the man, in this very court. “I heard him. I heard him. His words were as near a threat to your very person as have ever been uttered.”
Byron stood cross-armed, jaw firmly set, wearing only a blue robe. He looked from Lord Laswick to Will, and back again.
“Prince Byron,” Lord Laswick said, looking out of the corner of his eyes at Will, “this all makes but little sense. I was meeting to discuss trade with Master Odell and Lord Caldridge. On behalf of Hyrel.” Words that were sharp for Will turned soft when he spoke to Byron.
“On who’s authority?” Will challenged.
“My own,” Byron replied.
Will swung his gaze to Byron and opened his mouth as if to speak but closed it again. “Byron?” he finally managed.
“Will, I know you mean well, but Lord Laswick is experienced in these affairs. He knows better than you and I both. He has my trust. You must temper your words, I want your counsel, have made you a generous offer that you have yet to accept, by the way, but I can’t have you running afoul of every noble House this side of the Kaspen Sea.” Byron sighed and seemed to shrink slightly. Then he smiled and put a hand to Lord Laswick’s shoulder, extending the other to Will. “Now is a time for unity in Myren, what with the threats from the east.”
“What about the Duke?” Will shot back, reminded by the mention of Kyres. “I heard him mention the Duke.”
Lord Laswick patted Byron on his arm this time. “Yes, the Duke of Lyle.”
Will shook his head. “It makes little sense.”
“Will…” Byron looked tired, worn, despite the smile on his face. He looked thin, and there were lines on his forehead and around his smile that hadn’t been there before. For the umpteenth time in as many weeks, Will felt sorry for the weight on his friend’s shoulders. Byron was right, perhaps he had mistaken simple words for malice, he did need to keep his composure after all, and it would do him good to use his mind more freely than his fists.
But then Will looked to Lord Laswick and saw his smug, satisfied, lopsided, grin.
Will kicked his foot at the ground in Laswick’s direction, spun on his heels, and stomped from the room, slamming the door shut hard against its frame as he went.
Hours later, the moon was still high in the night sky, as William Erris guided his horse down the still, dark, streets of Lyle. She was a chestnut mare named Mari that had been given to him by Byron two years prior. He felt almost sorry taking her now, laden as she was with the few packs that
represented everything of value that Will owned: two shirts, a spare set of breeches and boots, a knife, a dagger, and a sheathed sword. That with a few pieces of copper, and a silver heste or two, were the sum of his pitiful existence, as it were.
When he made it to the docks all of the ships were quiet, their sails drawn for the night. No matter, the sun would be up soon and then he’d barter for passage to the east, to Alaina. She was in danger, he knew it, and if Byron did not want him around, he would go where he was needed.
As he was waiting, sitting atop his horse, he tried to picture Alaina, her round face and auburn hair. He tried to remember the feel of her warm body against his in the chill of the night. It was becoming difficult he found, already, to bring it all to mind, though as he tried, her words came back to him instead, and with little effort. “I must go,” she was explaining to him once again. “They killed my brother. My father, I think, as well. They must be held accountable.”
Then he thought about Byron as he offered him Erris, entreated him for his aid and counsel.
Last, he saw that smug grin on Lord Lewin Laswick’s face again, and before he knew what he was doing, he had turned Mari about, and was heading back toward the castle.
He boarded his horse in short order in the rear stable, leaving his packs for fear of any delay weakening his resolve, before heading into the keep and mounting the stairs.
The door to Byron’s privy chamber swung open once again, and this time Will caught Byron and Lord Laswick mid conversation but did not stop for a moment to consider it.
“I’ll take it,” he said, leveling a narrow stare Lord Laswick’s way. “Your offer. I’ll take it, Byron. I’ll take Erris.”
Chapter Eleven
ALAINA
Alaina had had enough of being told what to do. Since the day she stepped foot into the keep at Casterlin, she had been followed, ordered about, and locked in her room with no egress. At first, she had thought it some mistake. Finding her room unlocked the first morning, she went about her business, breaking her fast with Stans Wallace, Anne, and Blanche, in a dreary dining hall of the same brown brick, with a long wooden table and chairs. But then when evening came, and Stans Wallace escorted her back to her chambers, she heard the scraping of key in lock that she knew meant that her room was locked again. She had questioned the Duke on this, and he had said only that it was for “her own protection.” There were dangers about, he said, and perhaps Cragsmoor was not the same sort of place that Lyle was.
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