ALAINA
The evening meal with the Casterlins, in the bare, brown, hall, had become a routine occurrence for Alaina. The long table was well-worn wood, the cups of glazed clay, the plates showing the thousand tiny scratches of well-burnished pewter. The food was palatable, if plain. This night brought a purplish field root of some type, baked and salted, yellow beans boiled until they were fat with water, and some sort of roasted game hen, lean and greasy. The fare itself would not have bothered her so much – her brother Robert had told her from a young age when she did want to eat something, that there were those in the realm who ate far worse than them – but the company that came along with it was enough to turn her stomach sour.
The matron of the house, Blanche, with her hair in a tight gray bun, her face thin, with tight lines, seemed always to be peering into her mind, probing with her questions, judging. “That is not how you eat chican root, my dear,” she huffed. “Did they teach you nothing in Lyle? Did they not teach you proper manners and etiquette? Were they not preparing you for your role as you came of age?” Alaina, more often than not, smiled politely, attempting to let the words wash over her. There was a greater fight going on, after all, than that of these superficial barbs.
Then there was Stans Wallace, whose chair seemed to move ever closer hers with each passing day. His nose was large, bearing a dozen tiny purple veins, and his brows were dark and bushy. His teeth were crooked, and his hands were thick and covered to the knuckles with black hair. The man had been so bold this day as to touch her own hand, which she had left resting on the table, with one of his own. It was all she could do not to recoil in fear and disgust. As it was, she favored him with as pleasant a smile as she could manage, and then slowly withdrew her hand and placed it on her lap. Stans Wallace appeared to be attempting to be courtly, though it was clear he had poor instruction or little practice, something she imagined throwing back in observation at his mother. Alaina had once believed Stans Wallace to be the great threat behind all that happened to her family; however, she was beginning to wonder. Blanche Casterlin appeared the more cunning and devious one.
Stans Wallace’s sister Anne more often than not got right down to partaking liberally of her wine, often deep into her cups before the first course arrived. This night was no different, and she drank heavily and then fiddled with her bread, taking only a bite or two. The food on her plate she pushed around with her fork, eating little. This practice explained her thin appearance, and the fact that she hit a point quite early on in the meal, in which she became giddy, laughing inappropriately at much of what everyone was saying, her mother in particular. Blanche gave her daughter disapproving looks, but passed little judgement on the young woman, in the same manner that she did Alaina.
Dessert was clotted cream and wildberries, a highlight of the meal, and then they sat as they often did, in chairs by the hearth. The room grew darker and the fire hissed and cracked, and the rest was silence. They rarely spoke, any of them, just starting at the blaze in the stone hearth, orange and yellow, long shadows trailing down the hall behind them. It bothered Alaina at first, her family would have talked endlessly, too much perhaps, speaking over each other’s words, joking, singing, and telling stories. Often of an evening her father would have to tell them all to settle down with the stern voice he kept for such occasions. But then she, Byron, and Robert, would still whisper to one another, and in those moments, she often saw her father smile, and knew that his anger was only so great.
In the end, Alaina had learned early on not to mind the silence. It gave her time to think. Tonight was the night she was supposed to meet with her supposed benefactor in town, and she needed the time to work over her plan and screw up her courage. At the end of her journey this evening, she could find the key to her mission, or else the inside of one of the cells the servants whispered were in the cellar. When an hour had passed Stans Wallace stood, and that had been become her signal to do so as well.
The tall, stout man walked her to her chamber, as he had become accustomed to doing, and then waited as she opened her chamber door. Unlike most evenings, when Alaina turned, he was waiting very close. He put a hand to her shoulder, gripping a bit too hard, and then lumbered in and put his lips to hers. It was a stiff kiss, and her eyes grew wide in surprise. Alaina could smell sweat and smoke on him, as she stood frozen in place. Stans Wallace lingered for a moment, and then stood up, starting at her. “Th-thank you, m’lord,” was all she could think to say.
Stans Wallace opened his mouth and closed it a few times, his tongue clicking against the inside of his mouth. “Yes, well… yes,” he responded. “Good evening, my lady.”
Alaina found the door handle behind her and used it to pull herself inside, and then closed the door again. Once in her room she heard the telltale sound of the keys coming out of Stans Wallace’s robe, and it brought her back to her sense. She moved over to the door and retrieved the butter knife from her dress sleeve that she had taken from the dinner table. As the key entered the lock and began to turn, she thrust the knife into the door jamb, between the catch plate and the frame. Alaina held it there, wincing as the key completed its rotation, the belt inside scraping on the knife blade. Then she waited. A few moments of silence followed and then she heard booted footsteps retreating away from the door.
She knelt down and peered into the jamb where she still held the knife. The bolt that caught in the frame to set the lock home, had deflected off of the blade, and was resting at an upward angle. Alaina put her hand to the iron ring and waited several more moments, then she pulled on the door, softly, slowly, holding the knife firmly in place. It slid toward her, the bolt scraping off of the knife blade. Again, she winced, slowly working the door inward. Finally, it came free of the doorframe, and opened. Alaina could see the dark light of the hallway beyond. She left out a breath she hadn’t know she was holding.
Alaina spun around then and took a small pack she had prepared from a table near the door and grabbed a dark cloak from a peg on the wall. She threw the cloak over her shoulders, and the pack followed over an arm. She brought the hood of the cloak over her head and then retrieved a belt and sheathed dagger from the pack. This she fastened around her waist and then she drew the dagger and rubbed the edge of the blade against her thumb. It had been a gift from Robert, and bore a gilded hilt, wrapped in blue velvet, and a fine steel blade. She stowed it away again in its sheath and then made her way out into the hall.
As quietly as she could manage, she pushed the door closed and started down the corridor, keeping her back against the brown brick wall, moving in the shadowed paths that ran between each pair of torches, set in iron-sconces, that hung along the way. In little time she came to the stairwell that would lead down to the main floor, but as she went to take the first stair, her cloak caught. She pulled it, but it would not budge. When she turned, she saw a figure standing there, holding on to it, the folds tight in someone’s grasp.
Alaina’s hand went to her dagger, but the figure’s other hand grabbed her wrist. “Shhhh,” a voice said. The voice sounded feminine and familiar. From the cast of a dim torch several feet back, she slowly was able to make out the face of Erielle Dratcher.
“Where are you going?” Erielle asked, in a whisper.
“To the kitchens,” Alaina said. “I’m feeling a bit hungrier than I would have thought, after dinner.”
Erielle looked her up and done. “You’re a poor liar.”
Alaina glowered at her. “I am hungry.”
“Funny attire for a late-night meal. Why the need for all the creeping about and jamming the lock to your room?”
“Please,” begged Alaina. “Don’t stop me. Don’t tell. I need to go. I swear on all I hold dear; the safety of the realm demands it.” She hoped she had read the woman right, and she bore no love for her masters. Then again, she could possibly use Alaina’s discovery as a way to barter favor for herself.
“I won’t tell,” Erielle said. “Only, take me with you. I nee
d to be free of this place. The debt is too great, and I too have urgent matters to see to.”
Realization dawned on Alaina of what the young woman thought she was about. “I’m not leaving. Not yet.”
She saw Erielle shrink at that, her shoulders sag. “Oh.”
“But I will. Take you with me, I mean. When I go. I just can’t do it yet.”
Erielle was staring at the floor now. She nodded slowly without looking up. “Alright.”
“I promise.” Alaina reached forward and took Erielle’s hand in her own. She squeezed it.
Erielle managed a small smile at that. She squeezed Alaina’s hand weakly in the return. “I’ll wait up for you. To make sure you return safely. I’ll watch the door to ensure no one discovers it.”
“Thank you,” Alaina said. “Thank you.”
When she was outside, Alaina made it easily to the stable. No one kept guard of the stable itself at night, and so she had the same horse she had become accustomed to riding out and ready in moments. It wasn’t long after that that she was coming upon the town again. It was quiet place at night, with only the occasional torch visible, and here and there the reddish hue of lighted windows from taverns and inns who were still serving the locals ale and wine. The Whispering Pine was one such inn, and she found it with relative ease, drawing her cloak about her face as she ducked inside.
There was an old man in the corner playing the pipes that evening, so most heads were turned toward him, or else were down on the table in front of them, not moving, passed out from too much drink. Alaina found Fayd’s dark hair and beard with little effort and moved toward him. He stood when he saw her, took her hand, and led her from the room, into the back hallway.
Alaina opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her with a finger. They moved further down the corridor than before, this time stopping at a different door, which Fayd pushed open, before pulling her inside.
A candelabra bathed the room in a soft glow, and illuminated a sole figure, seated at a table, looking out of a window. He turned when she entered the room and stood. Although he was easily in his sixtieth year, his white hair was short and combed, his beard neatly trimmed. He was dressed in a fine coat of pale yellow, a white tunic, and breeches that flared at the thighs. There was a gray vulture facing toward the right stitched upon his breast.
The old man bowed slighty and said, “Darelus Arbelus, Earl of Laire, at your service, m’lady. Come, sit.”
Lord Arbelus had a warm demeanor, and Alaina found herself moving forward and sitting down at the table beside him, a sense of ease coming over her. When she was seated Fayd left the room and closed the door behind him.
“Fayd is a good man,” Lord Arbelus said, when he had gone. “He will watch the room and ensure no harm comes to you.”
“Thank you, m’lord,” Alaina said. “I appreciate it, all of it, but we must make haste. I must be back before I am discovered. We have but little time.”
“I know, my dear, I know.” When he said those words, he reminded her of her father for a reason she couldn’t place.
“Tell me why you sought me out,” she pleaded.
Darelus Arbelus put a hand to his chin and scratched his beard. “We share similar suspicions, and as it were, similar desires. There are none who do not suspect who is behind the tragedy that has befallen your family, only those that wish to see things go one way or another.”
“And you favor the House of Lyle before your own landed lord?”
Lord Arbelus laughed. “Any alliance is tenuous at best. I favor only the path of peace over that of greed. I have enough wealth today to see myself and my House another hundred years or more. I see no need to upset the realm over a desire for power. I am old, I no longer quest for vanity and glory. These seem silly things to an old man.”
“You are wise, m’lord,” Alaina said. “You remind me of my father.”
Lord Arbelus laughed again. “That is high praise. I knew your father. Not well, perhaps, but better than many. He was a man of honor.”
“Truth be told, m’lord, I never heard him mention you. But knowing him as only a daughter does, I can imagine he would have thought highly of you.”
Lord Arbelus took the compliment with a nod and then leaned in toward her. “Lady Alaina, listen to me. You are in grave danger here. The Casterlins want nothing more than to secure your birthright for themselves, this I know well. I can lend aid to your family.”
Alaina sat back in her chair. She studied the soft lines of Darelus Arbelus’ face. “What would you have me do?”
“Speak to your brother. Learn his mind and share with me his intent in kind. A well-timed attack on the east could take Duke Casterlin unawares and remove the threat. House Casterlin will stop at nothing to secure their place in Hyrel. They will respond only to might, but if the Prince Regent shows his strength, perhaps peace can be restored with little bloodshed.”
“You said you could help?”
“I have ships. I can provide easy access across the Kaspen Sea. Boarding and supplies for an army outside of Laire. I can be your ally in the east, allowing House Lyle a foothold from which to strike.”
It sounded as logical a plan to her as any other. Alaina had not spent near as much time as Robert studying military strategy, but Byron had those that could help vet the plan. She had to get this information back to him.
Alaina took Lord Arbelus’ hand in her own. “Thank you, m’lord.”
Lord Arbelus smiled at her and bowed his head. “I must leave tonight, m’lady. This is too dangerous a place to tarry long. But you can word to me through Fayd. As soon as I know that your brother is onboard with our plan, we will set things into motion.”
“Thank you, m’lord,” was all she could say again. “Thank you.”
The next morning Alaina awoke back in her chamber. She had slept in due to her evening excursion and was late to rise. When she made her way into the front sitting room all seemed right. It appeared she had gotten away with her clandestine trip, no one but Erielle the wiser. As she turned back toward her room to get dressed, she noticed an iron bound chest placed against the wall, that had not been there before.
“Erielle,” she called. “What is this?”
“The chest, m’lady?” Erielle called from the washroom. “A man came and dropped it off this morning. He said it was a gift, delivered for you.”
Alaina moved over to the chest and knelt down before it. Perhaps it is something sent from home, from Byron. She opened the latch and lifted the lid. Inside there was only a mass of rumpled, blue cloth. She took it in hand and held it out before her. When the cloth unfurled it was revealed to be a tunic of blue emblazoned with a silver falcon. There was a large tear through the falcon across which was a deep red stain.
“Robert’s tunic,” she managed, then she collapsed inside herself and crumpled to the floor.
Chapter Fifteen
JETHRA
The night was dark, the sky moonless, cloudless. Jethra sat atop a dark stallion, wearing dark clothes, thinking dark thoughts. Her work tonight had to be precise, seamless, unremarkable until the moment of impact. She could not afford to be spotted or seen at all, by anyone.
From her perch amongst a copse of trees, see could see the small city of Rathborne below, an old outpost that sat midway between Novak and Laire. It had high stone walls, and many guards in helms and chain, brandishing sharp spears. Being so busy a place yet sitting landlocked as it was, and too far from the other major cities in the region, it had a long history of being rife for attack, pillaging, and conquest, and it showed.
Jethra led her horse over to a glade, hobbling it between a tree and a large outcropping of rock. She opened a sack of oats and placed it on the ground. She felt bad leaving the animal as it was, given that whether things went well or poorly, she may not be back to release it. But neither could she have the animal running about without her, drawing attention. So, instead, she gave it a pat on the rump, and started off toward the city.
/> She made her way carefully down a hill of grass on padded feet, crouched low, a dark scarf drawn over her mouth. Her hair was cropped short and tucked inside a dark hood. The disguise worked well enough that when she was nearly upon the stone wall, some fifteen feet from the closest guardsmen, he still could not see her. A prior day’s surveillance had revealed her best chances of entrance was at this section of wall, on the northern side of the city. There were fewer guards here on a wider expanse of wall, than at other places, likely because the wall also rose at this point, making it more difficult to surmount. The torches above were more widely dispersed as well, affording little light.
Directly in front of her the guard stood on ground level. He was a young man, yellow of hair, his breath visible in the chill night air, and he stood rubbing his hands together for warmth. His spear was in the crook of her arm and so he made for an easy target. Jethra walked in the shadows as he turned away and she came up behind him. One hand went over his mouth, while the other brought her drawn dagger across his throat in one quick movement. His gurgles were muffled by the thick pads on her palms, and when they stopped, she lowered him to the ground, body limp, eyes still.
Jethra then grabbed the best handholds she could find and set the spiked crampons on her toes into the mortar. The wall was of uncut stone, with a thick layer of mortar between, which made for an ideal climbing surface, when it came to sheer walls. It was some thirty feet up, and she had to be certain to not disturb anyone above or below. As she went, she found mortar flaking off with the movement of her feet, falling to the ground. In one such case a large enough piece broke free and hit the ground with a thud. A nearby guard stopped and looked about at the sound, but he though he searched all about, he never looked upward, to the form hanging above him, and so she was spared.
When she had made it to within ten feet of the crenellations at the top of the wall, her legs began to cramp. She had practiced as well as she could, in a rocky area to the west, for a week prior. But apparently it had not been enough. She had to hold on and rest her legs as best she could, allowing her weight to shift to aching arms. When enough time had passed, she continued her ascent again.
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