The dark-haired young woman in her room, assigned as a servant to the lady, had explained that there was much secrecy in the keep, that all the rooms were locked, that servants were not allowed to wander at night, and were never allowed to venture to the lower levels of the castle. She had introduced herself as Erielle Dratcher, said that she was bound in ways far greater than by iron locks. “I owe a debt,” she had said. “I’m not permitted to leave until that debt is paid.” Alaina found her to be a nice enough young woman, though melancholy, and had offered her coin. But Erielle only shook her head and said, “Not that sort of debt.” This last she had whispered under her breath, appearing almost afraid to let the words pass her lips. Alaina felt uncomfortable pushing the subject, and Erielle had grown quiet for some time after that.
Then there was the manner in which her retinue was being treated. She had not seen Halster Brighton since she had left him at his room the first day, and Blanche had only told her that the man was sick. They had sought a healer for him, she said, but that he was not faring well. The rest of her servants appeared to have come down with a similar ailment, and they were being held in the eastern wing, so as not to spread their sickness. Alaina had demanded to see them, but Blanche had said only that Alaina appeared healthy, and that there was too much risk in allowing the sickness to affect her. After all, what would her brother say if she grew ill and it was learned that House Casterlin had not done everything in their power to protect her? Alaina tried again to reason with her, but Blanche had cut off her protestations with a fierce look that brooked no further argument.
Alaina had tried to open the lock that held her in her chambers at night and had tried to get to those lower levels Erielle had mentioned, all to no avail. Getting information on the scheming of House Casterlin was harder than she had anticipated. Then one day something arrived that changed everything: a note of folded parchment, slipped beneath her chamber door. Erielle had been present when it arrived, and had picked it up, examining the blue wax and falcon seal. The woman had looked at it for many moments, as if conflicting thoughts were churning in her head, before handing it to Alaina.
Inside was a simple message: I can help you. Come to town two days hence. The Whispering Pine. Tell no one.
That was it. No signature, or other identifying markings. So, Alaina having had enough of it all, and knowing she’d be remanded to her room in the evening, had done the forbidden and left the keep walls on the morning of the second day, heading to the stables in the side yard. She would go to town and get this information from the clandestine messenger or, failing that, would send a missive of her own back to Byron, if needed. One way or another she would get to the bottom of things. While she was at it, she would find a way to get the information she was looking for on the Casterlins. Restriction to her rooms was making it hard to search the keep for answers, so she’d begin instead in the open air of the town.
She arrived at a small dusty patch of earth with a low-roofed structure of wood and earthen floors, stall after stall housing horses of varying sizes and colors. There was a young boy in worn roushspun clothes outside sitting on a stool and mending a harness.
“I’d like a mount please,” Alaina said, when she had arrived at the entrance to the stable.
The boy looked up and his eyes went wide. “W-what? M-m’lady—”
“A calm one, well used to riding at a pace.”
“I can’t, I-I can’t d-do that. Been told—”
Alaina sighed and pushed past the boy. She found a suitable mare, white with patches of brown down its neck and flank and retrieved a saddle from a series of pegs on one of the walls. She stroked its mane, and found it peaceful enough, so she threw the saddle over its back and secured it below, then fit the bit and bridle on its head. Alaina then led the beast from the enclosure and out onto the open field.
The boy looked shocked when she returned and began to open his mouth to speak. Alaina leveled her most petulant glare at him, and he turned and bolted toward the keep. She had dressed in a light tunic and riding breeches in preparation, so she easily swung up into the saddle, and started the horse off at a slow trot, down the hill, and toward the town.
Halfway there, she was intercepted by a pair of guardsmen on horseback, yellow surcoats emblazoned with a black hawk, draped over their platemail. “You can go no further, m’lady,” one of them said. “By order of the Duke Stans Wallace of Casterlin.”
“I beg to differ,” she said, and went to push her mount past them.
Two sets of hands went for swords at their waists. The guards did not move their horses to let her pass.
Ellen found herself feeling incredulous despite her rough treatment so far, and raised a fist and was about to tell the guards how she felt about such indignation, when a new voice broke in.
“Whoa, my friends, whoa,” the new voice said. Alaina turned to see a young man on horseback coming toward them. He wore a fine white tunic, and a leather vest, studded with iron. His breeches were of a fashionable cut, and he wore high black boots polished to a shine. There was a sword at his waist, but he made no move for it. The guards turned toward him in question.
“What is the meaning of this, m’lord?” the first one demanded.
The young man was upon them now. He was handsome after a fashion, with long dark hair, parted down the center, a clean-shaven face, and blue eyes. “
“I was simply going for a ride into town,” Alaina explained.
“Do you not know who this is?” the young man asked.
“M’lord?” said the guard, confused.
“This is the Lady Alaina of Lyle. Surely you must let her pass.”
“We have orders—”
“Never mind that,” said the young man. “M’lady, would you join me on a ride into town?”
Alaina inspected the man again from head to toe. He appeared nice enough, some young noble for certain by the manner in which he spoke to the guards, but she did not know if she could trust him. However, she realized quickly that she had no other way out of her current predicament and toward her goal. “Yes,” she said finally. “I’d be pleased to.”
The guards parted and Alaina followed after the young man as he made his way down the remainder of the hill. When the they were out of view, the young man turned to her and said, “Nothing to worry on, m’lady. They take their orders seriously.”
“And what orders are those?” asked Alaina.
He waved a hand in dismissal. “Nothing. Nothing. To protect the keep, that is all.”
“By restricting anyone from coming and going?”
“The Duke is a serious man. Perhaps sometimes a bit too much so. My name is Marcel Howland, by the way.” He offered his hand.
Alaina tightened her hold on the reins. “Yes, well… well met, Master Howland. You know my name already.”
Marcel bowed his head in acknowledgment and withdrew his hand without pause. “How could I not? You’ve made quite a stir since you arrived.”
“Is that so?”
Marcel nodded, resting his hands on the pommel of his saddle. “Now, what can I do for m’lady? A tour of the local establishments? Dining or drink at one of our fine taverns or inns?” He seemed to be making jest now. “I know this land well. I grew up here.”
It occurred to Alaina as she watched him speak, that he looked somewhat like a certain Casterlin cousin she had gotten to know at Lyle. But then she felt her cheeks flush and had to turn away. “I’d like to visit a tavern,” she said, as she forced the images from her head. She might as well be out with it, he seemed nice enough, and she had not gotten very far by other means.
“I know a wonderful place, m’lady. A property of House Casterlin called The Iron Rock. Beautiful really, with wonderous fare.”
Alaina shook her head. “I had another place in mind.”
“Oh?”
“The Whispering Pine.”
Marcel furrowed his brow. “I know the place. It’s a minor inn with a tavern room, though it’
s not a nice place. Might I suggest—”
“That’s where I’d like to go.”
Marcel bit his lower lip and then shrugged. “Alright.”
The young man steered his mount through the town streets, leading the way along the twists and turns of the dirt avenues. When finally they came to a small inn, he dismounted, and tied his horse to a post. He did the same for Alaina’s, and then offered a hand to help her down. He had a good smile, she could say that, and so she reluctantly took his hand and dismounted.
The inn was a small, one-story building, of stained wood and pale plaster. Inside the beamed ceilings were low, and Marcel led her through a small front room with a hearth, only party to a few guests who sat in wicker chairs conversing softly or resting, to a larger taproom in the rear of the building.
They took a seat at a small table against a wall, and a serving woman was over in moments, asking what they’d like. They ordered a stew and goblets of wine, and the woman returned with the items shortly after. Marcel poked at the stew with a suspicious look on his face, so Alaina took a spoonful and ate it, just to spite him. It was alright, a bit over-seasoned, but warm and pleasant enough. She washed it down with a sip of wine, but made sure to pace herself, so as not to dull her wits.
“So, you’re to wed the Duke, then?” Marcel asked, after putting his spoon down, seeming disinterested in the fare in front of him.
Alaina nearly spit out the sip of wine she was taking. “Ah, yes, as it were. The details haven’t been discussed yet, but yes.”
“A well-made match,” he said lifting his goblet. “Sure to cement relations between Casterlin and Lyle.”
“Yes,” said Alaina. She raised her own mug and forced a smile. “Of course.” She did not know who this man was, and so she needed to tread lightly.
As they were talking, another man stumbled over, several years older than her for certain, with a mop of dark hair and several days of stubble on his cheeks and chin. He wore a loose-fitting tunic and breeches, and when he was near, he knocked into their table and stumbled to the ground. Marcel’s mug fell over, and red liquid spilled across the table, toward Marcel, and onto the floor.
Marcel was up in an instant, pushing his chair back, and brushing wine from his clothes with the backs of his hands. He glowered at the drunk man, who was now attempting to get to his feet. “How dare you, you lousy, little—”
Alaina stood, and took the man’s arm, helping him to his feet. “Th-thank you. Thank you, m’lady,” the man said. He had dark eyes, and a scar that ran from his right ear to the bottom of his chin, separating his stubble like a serpent trailing through water.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
The man nodded and took her hand in thanks. As he did, he pressed something in it, small, thin, square. He closed her hand around it as he took his own away, and nodded again, before exiting the room. It occurred to Alaina he looked less unsteady on his feet as he left, the he had when he came, and she carefully moved her closed hand to her side, as she took her seat again.
The serving woman had shown up with a cloth and was mopping up the table and floor. She attempted to aid Marcel, but he seethed through closed teeth, and pushed her away. Eventually he took his seat and said, “I can’t—I never—a man who can’t control himself.” Marcel shook his head.
“I’ve met a few in my time,” Alaina replied with an arched eyebrow.
“Yes, assuredly, yes, I mean, I apologize m’lady.”
“Think nothing of it,” she replied.
Marcel then launched into a condemnation of all men who could not handle their drink, and while he did, she opened the small piece of parchment in her lap. It was fortunate for her that he was so absorbed in his own words, for she was able to read the note in secret, with only minor effort. It was the same script as before, and it said: There is a room down the hall. Third door on the right. Come. Now. Time is short.
Alaina waited many moments for a break in the conversation, but when one didn’t come, she stood up and excused herself. “I must attend to my person,” she said.
Marcel appeared off-put by the disruption in his speech but then bowed his head and waved a hand in acquiesce. Alaina moved from the room as fast as she dared.
Outside, she found her way down the hall, and to the room in question. She thought to knock but did not want to draw attention. So, she took a deep breath, and pushed inside.
This new room was dark, as there were no windows for light, nor lamp lit. When she had closed the door behind her, she pressed her back to the door. She tried to look about as her eyes adjusted, but it was slow in coming. Then something brushed her arm, and grabbed it, tight. Instinct took over, and she raised a fist to strike, her mouth drawn open to yell. But then a voice interrupted her.
“Quiet.” It was the man from earlier. His breath smelled of wine as he whispered. “They must not hear.”
There was the sound of flint striking steel and then a candle was lit, casting harsh shadows off of the walls. He was very close to her, and she suddenly realized that she did not feel very safe, trying to puzzle out how she always ended up in these situations.
“Wh-who are you?” Her voice faltered despite her best efforts at bravado.
“Where is the note?” he asked.
Alaina held it up and the man took it, and then held it to the candle flame, watching it quickly burn down, before letting the last remaining bit drop to the floor and burn out.
“The other? From the keep?”
“I burned it,” Alaina said.
“Smart,” said the man. “Good. You can call me Fayd.”
“Well met, Fayd. How can you be of service to the crown?”
Fayd grimaced at that, locking eyes with her, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The look was not pleasant. “I represent someone who wants to help you.”
“Who?”
“Darelus Arbelus. Earl of Laire.”
Laire was a city to the south, past Novak. It was not a House that had a historical connection to Lyle or Hyrel interests. “Is that so?”
“It is,” said Fayd. “The Earl is sympathetic to your cause, with all the turmoil that has happened. He has information as well, things House Lyle will want to know.”
“What information?”
Fayd grinned and straightened up. “That is not a thing I know. I am but a humble servant of House Arbelus. But he will tell you.”
“The Earl? I cannot travel to Arbelus with any haste.”
The gruff man leaned in again. “You do not have to. He will be here. At this inn. Tomorrow night. You must come then.”
“Nights are proving difficult—”
“You must come tomorrow, and not before dusk, or you’ll draw too much attention and leave room for surveillance. The window of opportunity will not remain open long. The Earl is taking a large risk by speaking to you so close to the lion’s den. You appear resourceful. Find a way.”
“Alright.” Alaina was formulating a plan already, as leveraging the help again of Marcel might work.
“Oh, and another thing,” said Fayd. “Lose the man. The one you’re with today. He cannot be trusted.”
Alaina shrunk again in defeat. “Are you certain?”
“As much as matters. Keep away from him. No one can be trusted in this rat’s nest of a stinkhole.”
Later, when Alaina was riding back to the keep, Marcel beside her, she eyed the man again, trying to find a crack in the handsome façade that showed ill intent. He had helped her from the castle once, the same could likely be done again. But Fayd had warned her to keep away. Fayd himself was unkempt and rough, though much of this seemed likely to be a ruse to get close to her unnoticed.
Can I truly trust any of them? Is it all an elaborate plan to expose my intent to the Casterlins? Alaina was far from certain.
Chapter Twelve
MARTIN
The harsh rays of morning streamed through the window of a small room of white plaster walls in a two-story inn i
n the western end of town. Martin Krye managed to get out of bed and, naked, made his way to a washbowl on the dresser at the other end of the room. He dipped his face in the water and then scrubbed it with his hands, attempting to wash away the fog and haze that had crept in with the drink of the prior night.
He turned and looked over his shoulder to see the white bedsheet rising and falling with the shallow breaths of a young woman. He could see her brown, curly hair falling over plump shoulders, and traced the curve of her back down until it disappeared beneath the folds of the sheet. He wasn’t certain her name, what he had done with her, or why, though he could guess, so he retrieved his clothes form the floor and managed to pull on his dark breeches with some stealth. He threw his tunic over his shoulder and grabbed his boots and swordbelt. He left three silver heste on the dresser by the washbowl, and quietly made his way out of the room.
When he left exited the inn, fastening his belt about his waist, he was met by wiry Jonns, who called escorted him on another trip to the offices of Gregor Hake and another scolding. Martin Krye was losing his patience with the man. Again, Hake spoke of plans, this time mentioning something going on in Morrisey in the west, but would reveal nothing more, so again Martin left. It had occurred to him as it often did of late that Hake would look better decorated with the daggers from him belt in his chest, but Martin had broken down and promised this time that he would not antagonize the Kardiffs anymore. If for nothing else, then to get out of the man’s office, but he was not happy about it. And if the Kardiffs went after him first? I must defend myself, mustn’t I? You cannot ask a man to lay down his sword when danger is at his doorstep.
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