by T. O. Munro
Across the room the Bishop Sorenson had been joined by a thin faced curate called Merlow and a grey suited manservant called Fenwell. The curate dared to meet the gaze of any who would look his way. The manservant eschewed any attention bestowed on him by his master’s peers, staring resolutely at the floor.
The Lords of Oostsalve had an entourage of two. Leniot presented Sir Vahnce, a slim man clean shaven olive complexion fastidiously clad in black doublet and breeches. While Leniot described him as a close confidante and adviser, Thom muttered that he was known as little more than Leniot’s drinking and gambling partner.
Tybert’s associate was a woman. Hepdida guessed her to be a little older than Niarmit, but dressed with striking attention to fashion and to detail. Despite the hurried summons her blond hair was piled elegantly high to show off a pale neck. An elaborate cape and dress made the most of a full figure that would have made Hepdida’s mother seethe with jealousy. Tybert had introduced her as the Lady Maia, his spiritual counsellor whereupon Quintala fell to a fit of coughing in the midst of which Hepdida was sure she heard the word “whore.”
The introductions done it was Sorenson who asked the obvious question. “Will the Lady Kychelle not be joining us, Madam Regent?”
“She will not.” Giseanne glanced across at her husband, who had been slumped in his chair glowering at each of his guests in turn. At Sorenson’s question he stomped to his feet, shaking off Giseanne’s restraining arm.
“My Grandmother will not be joining us because she has been murdered.”
“My Lord!” Giseanne cried. “We agreed to say as little…”
“Bugger that!” Rugan called as the ripple of shock at his news ran around the room. Hepdida tried to look quickly from one face to the other gauging their reaction to see who was genuinely surprised and who was not. Sorenson’s jaw had dropped, the curate was frowning, Fenwell still stared at the floor.
Leniot and Tybert were exchanging a look, but of what? surprise? Understanding? It was not shock, not quite amusement, but the news had intrigued more than alarmed them. Vahnce’s eyes flicked quickly around the room and settled on Hepdida with a stare of enquiry scarcely less piercing than Niarmit’s. The Princess looked to the floor and hoped the blush would not reach her ears or pique the gambler’s interest.
“My grandmother has been murdered in my own halls, stabbed in the back in my son’s day nursery.”
“My Lord Prince,” Rhodra added her voice to Giseanne’s word of caution. “The less we divulge now the more chance we will have to uncover the truth of it.”
“The truth of it!” Rugan cried. “The truth of it is simple, one of you, guests in my home, have wrought this foul deed. You are all quartered in the fountain courtyard. The guards at the ends of the galleries have given convincing accounts that no-one passed by them in the night. He who struck the blow or she, came from one of those within this chamber.”
Sorenson coughed. “My Lord Prince, I grieve for your loss, the Petred Isle is a poorer place for the Lady Kychelle’s death. But forgive me, I thought your palace had wards in place, magical alarms which is why we had liberty to bring our arms in safety within your private chambers.”
Rugan blinked at the wall behind Sorenson. “The wards failed,” he said thickly. “Last night the wards failed and in that unguarded moment an assassin has struck.”
“When last we met in this chamber,” Leniot mused aloud. “I recall words being exchanged between the Lady Niarmit and poor Kychelle, a blow was struck. Injured pride is a powerful motivator for mischief, is it not?” He let the question hang in the air, all the while staring at Niarmit. Hepdida looked across at Kaylan. The thief made no move towards her but the Princess could see he had gone deathly pale.
Niarmit was calm in her own defence. “The Lady Kychelle and I had settled our differences since then and when we last spoke had parted most amicably.”
Tybert gave a snort of derision, while his concubine fanned her face at speed. Giseanne interjected. “I was there at that meeting and can vouch for the Lady Niarmit in this matter. However, it was not the purpose of this meeting to conduct an investigation or a trial.”
“Forgive me, Lady Giseanne, may I ask a question?”
Hepdida spun round at the unfamiliar voice. It was Vahnce who had spoken, slipping from Leniot’s shadow to pose a question in a soft eastern accent.
“Sir Vahnce, you may ask, but whether we can in wisdom answer it is another matter.”
“If the wards were not functioning, is it not possible for an assassin to have entered from outside the building, to have come across the gardens?”
“Past all my guards?” Rugan spat his disbelief.
“There is much in this night of sorrow which beggars belief, my Lord Prince,” Vahnce went on, oily smooth. “We should not be too swift to dismiss any possibility, however remote.” Behind him Hepdida saw Tybert and Leniot exchanging puzzled looks.
“Are we sure that the Lady Kychelle was the intended victim?” Sorenson pinned down a thought that had been eluding him for some moments. “You say this heinous attack took place in the nursery. The young Lordling, Andros, he is…?”
“Baby and nurse are well, they were in the night nursery and slept through the entire attack,” Giseanne assured the Bishop. “However, all avenues will be explored in the investigation and certain precautions must now be taken.” She swept her hand towards the plump cleric at her side. “Deaconess Rhodra will speak to each of you in turn today. With the aid of the Goddess’s blessing she will determine who speaks true and if any should lie. I would hope for your co-operation that the truth of this dreadful matter can be swiftly uncovered. The Goddess knows, terrible as poor Kychelle’s murder is, there are still greater concerns which demand our attention before we may be granted respite in which to grieve.”
“Amen to that,” Niarmit said.
***
“Prior Abroath, we need you!”
Abroath stumbled out of his tent to find Elyas, Tordil’s lieutenant, astride a lathered horse, both elf and steed stained from a desperate ride.
The Prior rubbed the shreds of sleep from his eyes. He had taken to resting from afternoon to evening in order to be refreshed and vigilant for the nights of ceaseless undead watch, but this reveille was earlier than expected. The Sun, though low, had not yet set. Its dying rays cast long shadows of man and beast towards the peaks behind him.
“Where are they coming from?” Abroath glanced down the sunlit lower slopes of the Torrockburn valley, but saw no sign of movement. True he might have missed a skulking orc or two, but the lumbering ill co-ordinated undead were always easy to spot at a distance. It was that which had led their enemy to drive the soulless ones East at night, when their cold lifeless bodies would be invisible to both human and elven sight.
“Not here, Prior. It is the Gap of Tandar, the enemy are trying to force passage along the Eastway.”
“How many of them?”
“All of them, Prior, all of them. Captain Tordil saw it, he has taken the First and Second Companies to the pass to support Sir Ambrose. He sent me to bid you bring the Third and Fourth. We will all be needed.”
“Undead?”
“A thousand or more. They lead the assault, Prior. All clad in the silver livery of Medyrsalve. They send the fallen comrades of Sir Ambrose and his troops. They mean to break our allies’ nerve.”
“They’d have to,” Abroath muttered. “If they fail and Ambrose holds firm and Tordil joins him, then we’d have the whole enemy force trapped in a muddy killing field either side of the Eastway.”
“That is why we need you, Prior. Captain Tordil says the enemy have over reached themselves. We may yet win this war in an evening.”
***
“I can’t do this, Kaylan, she will know. I was a fool to listen to you.”
“Hush my Princess, not so loud.” Kaylan gestured up at the balcony above them, the doors wide open to the sitting room beyond. “We do not want to be overheard by
anyone.”
“Especially not our friends,” she hissed back. She glanced around the empty garden and hugged herself against fear as much as the cold. “By the Goddess, I am to be interrogated by the Deaconess and she will know I lie.”
The thief pulled a small white object from inside his jerkin and pressed it into her hand. “Here, my Princess, chew this a little.”
Hepdida looked with suspicion at the object, it was the shape of a mushroom but hard to the touch, somewhere between a carrot and celery in texture. “What is it?”
“I don’t know its proper name. In Undersalve we called it thief’s friend, those who knew its properties.”
“Is it poisonous?”
He took it from her and bit half of it off, chewing rhythmically and tucking the morsel in his cheek from time to time when he wished to speak. “It grows under the earth in damp forests. It is very hard to find my Princess, you have to know where to look, but I always keep some by me.”
“What does it do?”
The strange vegetable was turning to mush and a thin trail of its purple juice was spilling from the corner of Kaylan’s mouth. Hepdida touched her own lip and caught Kaylan’s eye; he wiped the mauve rivulet away with his sleeve and nodded his thanks. “It wouldn’t serve to go in to see the Deaconess with purple lips, my Princess.”
“What does it do, Kaylan?”
He shrugged. “Some say it’s an old wives tale but I know there’s truth in it. Some also call it magic-bane. It hides the mind from any magical probing or manipulation, like you might encounter with a priest searching for answers you don’t want to give.”
“You’ve used it before? It worked for you?”
“It’s kept me out of jail a few times in days gone by.”
“Always?”
He winced. “Mostly.”
“By the Goddess, an old wives tale that mostly worked. You’d send me in to face Deaconess Rhodra with just that?”
“Come my Princess,” he offered her the uneaten half. “I’ve been chewing the stuff ever since we got here. I wouldn’t trust anything in that bastard Rugan’s palace. The whole place is riddled with magic and none of it good, the old dog’s just as treacherous and self-interested as he’s always been and I’m not about to be duped by any casual spell that’s seeped into the stones. I tell you though, young Thom’s little tricks with fire and that, they look a lot less impressive when you’ve a gutful of this stuff warding you against his charms.”
Hepdida brought the ugly root towards her mouth, hesitated a moment and then thrust it in, chewing resolutely. It had a bitter taste and an uneven texture that made her want to retch, but she ground her teeth against it, feeling the flood of juice it released.
“That’s it my Princess.” He patted her on the back when she fell to a fit of coughing.
“Will it work?” she spluttered.
“Well enough to let the good Deaconess miss us and spot the real murderer.”
Hepdida looked into the thief’s unblinking eyes. He spoke with soft assurance, so sincere, so credible. Too sincere? “It was your sword,” she said. “The murderer used your sword?”
He nodded. “It was missing when I woke up, that’s why I went looking for it.”
“Someone stole your sword?” She could not keep the incredulity from her voice.
He nodded, seeming oblivious to her returning doubt, and pointed to the window to the right of the balcony. “That’s my room, my Lady Niarmit’s is on the other side. These walls are easy to climb. Whoever took it could have climbed through there, or maybe come through our day room.”
“And you slept through this theft Kaylan? You?”
He frowned, lips pursed and admitted. “Yes that was odd. Perhaps the Deaconess’s enquiries will shed some light on that as well.”
“Hey, you two!” It was Thom calling from the balcony. “What are you skulking about down there for?”
“I was admiring the garden.” Hepdida plucked at a bare branch to illustrate her sudden horticultural fascination. The illusionist gave her a look of deep disbelief.
“In truth, Master Thom,” Kaylan said. “It was a somewhat private matter. The Princess was asking if I could give her some training in the art of defence. The night’s events have understandably made her concerned for her safety, even here in Rugan’s domain.”
Thom frowned at the contrasting pair, tall rangy thief and slightly built girl. “Would not her cousin or the Seneschal be more suited as trainers?”
Hepdida let Kaylan fashion their tale; he seemed to have a better gift for lying. The thief spread his hands, “the Lady Niarmit has many pressing concerns and besides, it is not brute sword work but the subtlety of knife play that my Princess desires mastery of.” Even thinking back afterwards Hepdida could not see how he had done it, but the thief had conjured a knife from within his sleeve. He juggled it with effortless ease before fashioning a throw towards Thom which had the illusionist ducking even as Kaylan laughing held up the knife uncast in his other hand.
“By the Goddess, Hepdida was scary enough with a knife when she had not had training,” Thom growled. “I dare not think what you might make of her.”
Kaylan gave a low bow and a broad grin.
“Anyway, your lessons will have to resume later. The Queen wants us all up here now. There is something she would say to us all.”
***
They were crowding up the funnel shaped valley towards the Gap of Tandar when Abroath arrived. A thousand zombies swaying in the last dregs of daylight. The thin line of necromancers in the rear were urging them forward, but the Prior noted how each wizard stood behind a scintillating shimmering shield of rainbow hues. The conjurations moved with them and those few archers who essayed a long shot found their arrows bouncing off the invoked protection. For the most part however the archers held their fire. They had learned the futility of piercing the undead with wasted arrows. The undead still wore the silver armour they had died in. That was itself a mercy for it hid from view what ravages death and decay had made of their fallen comrades.
A thin line of Medyrsalve spearman, backed up by dismounted hobilers, stood across the bottleneck where the pass rose to its narrow peak.
Behind the zombies, sliding sometimes in the mud, tramped row upon row of orcs. Even Abroath could see their pace slowing from the sapping uphill struggle across the rain softened ground.
The tall figure of Tordil beckoned Abroath down to join him with the hobilers. “Come Prior, stand with me. If you can carve a path through these lost souls we may yet strike through to slice open some living foes.”
Abroath glanced warily at the approaching horde. “There are a great many of them, Captain.” The Prior would admit there was a certain pleasure, joy even, to be had in channelling the power of the Goddess into the destruction of these benighted creatures. But there was a cost, the exhaustion which quite numbed his limbs and dulled his senses after barely half a dozen benedictions. “I cannot destroy them all.”
“Fear not, Prior,” Tordil assured him. “Here comes Sir Ambrose with his Chaplains all ordained in the service of the Goddess. They will lend their own piety to your cause. I have told the good Knight what marvellous weapons you fellows of the cloth can make.”
Abroath frowned as Sir Ambrose trotted up in full plate male astride his massive horse, leading a dozen worried looking priests in silver trimmed robes. He knew from his own early experience that dismissing zombies was not for the faint of faith and these chaplains in their military livery did not look overly blessed with piety.
“Well met Captain,” Ambrose greeted Tordil. “Let us make an end of these undead and then see how many of these orcs we can send sliding in the mud of their own shit all the way back down to the Saeth. I have brought you the secret weapons you desired. Is your instructor ready? It must of necessity be a swift lesson.”
The instructor glanced across his nervously devout dozen and thought they looked neither secret nor very weapon like.
***
“I just wanted to be the one to tell you,” Niarmit told the four of them. “Quintala already knows and the Lady Giseanne has made some reference to it, but Kychelle and I had quite resolved our differences.”
The Queen was standing, scanning the faces of the four of them as they sat in the private chamber. She paused, waiting for a response until Thom offered one. “That is good to hear, your Majesty.”
“Yes, Kychelle had decided to grant escorted passage through the Silverwood and to send three thousand elven warriors to fight beside us.”
Hepdida gasped and Thom whistled at a revelation whose significance was apparent even to their unmilitary minds. The Princess looked to the illusionist and then back to Niarmit, but the Queen’s eyes were on Kaylan at the end of the line. The thief had said nothing, but Hepdida saw the whitening knuckles on hands clenched in his lap. “That is good news indeed, my Lady,” he said thickly.
“We will have to see how far that goodwill survives grandmama’s death though,” Quintala pointed out.
Niarmit nodded, “the orders had already been given. They were Kychelle’s last command to her people so I would expect them to honour her wishes.”
“The manner of her death may make them think again.” The illusionist’s analysis brought a dark frown to the Queen’s face such that Thom hurried to apologise for his idle thought.
Niarmit waved him down. “Their reaction may depend on what the Deaconess uncovers.” Once more she scanned their faces with a fierce intensity.
“Who will lead the Silverwood now?” Hepdida asked hastily.
“That honour falls to a cousin of mine, the Steward of the Silverwood. The line of Andril and Kychelle ended with my mother Liessa; half-breeds like myself and my brother do not count of course.” Quintala observed with a wry smile of resignation.
“Who else,” Kaylan began and then coughed to clear his throat of the obstacle which had pitched his voice a fraction higher than normal. “Who else knew of the rapprochement you had reached with the elf, my Lady?”
