by Phil Tucker
His smile never reached his eyes. “Before those gathered here, I ask that you unite your life with mine, that we both seek Ascendancy together as man and wife, to support and ennoble each other, to the betterment of the land and our people.” He paused, then raised her hand farther, as if to kiss its back. “Will you be my wife?”
Iskra sat frozen. She felt like an image caught in glass. The slightest motion would cause everything to shatter. She stared down at Mertyn’s face and felt nothing but repulsion. As much as she’d despised Erland, his younger brother Mertyn would be infinitely worse. There was a darkness to him that she couldn’t fathom, a cruelty that she had only seen hints of.
Slowly, with great care, she drew her hand from his own. “I am sorry, Lord Laur. This proposal comes too soon. I must ask that you give me time to grieve for my late husband and your brother.”
Mertyn hesitated, then gave a small shrug and stepped back. “A most honorable request.”
Iskra allowed herself to relax for but a moment. If she could buy time, she could perhaps string him along for a season, enough time perhaps for her to regain her strength…
“Unfortunately, I need an answer tonight.” He smiled sweetly. “Hence my insistence on this meeting. So. Yes? Or no?”
Ser Wyland took a step forward. “My Lord, you overstep yourself. Nobody gives my Lady orders within her own castle.”
Mertyn didn’t even turn; he kept his gaze on Iskra. They locked eyes. She saw in his own a resolution that chilled her. To say yes would be awful. But to say no? What would that portend?
Everybody was watching her. She saw Kethe standing in the shadows of the doorway, eyes wide with horror. She forced herself to think of her lands, her distant properties, the amount of time it would take to raise an armed force, the proximity of the city of Otranto, her duty to safeguard her people, what it would feel like to be kissed and caressed by her brother-in-law.
“No, Lord Laur.” She stood. “I will not take you as a husband. I find your demands insulting and verging on extortion. Shame on you.”
Mertyn sighed. “As I feared. Still, it was worth the attempt. My Lady, it is with sincere regret that I must inform you that Lord Lenherd and the rest of my family are deeply concerned with your son’s wellbeing during these dangerous times. We have all agreed that you are not fit to protect him from danger, and thus it is with great reluctance that I have agreed to make him my ward until he comes of age.”
Iskra felt anger flare up within her. “Your ward? By what right? I don’t care what you and the rest of your family believe, he is my son! He shall remain safe here at Kyferin Castle. How dare you! I knew you to be ambitious, but you presume too much!” She felt enraged, alive, regal and alarmed. “I must ask that you and your men quit the castle immediately. You are no longer welcome here.”
Mertyn’s smile never disappeared. He drew off his second glove, tugging neatly at each fingertip. “My, but you are a little slow. Perhaps you’ve had too much wine? No matter. Why on earth would I ever quit Kyferin Castle? I take my duty to your son most seriously. My men are fully prepared to defend him, even now, at any cost.”
Ser Wyland drew his blade, only to be matched immediately by Ser Laur and the twins.
Iskra threw up a hand. “Stop! What madness is this? What are you saying, Mertyn?”
“What I am saying, my dear Iskra, is that the situation has changed.” He stepped up onto the dais. “I have twenty knights and over forty loyal soldiers within your walls. They are all in position and are prepared to do violence to defend your son.” He rounded the great cherry wood throne and sat. “Effective at this moment, I am the new Lord of Kyferin Castle.” He leaned back, testing the chair, then turned to smile at her again. “It is, I am sure you will agree, for the best.”
“You bastard,” whispered Iskra. It galled her how neatly she’d been duped. Her mistake had been to underestimate how brazen Mertyn could be. “I will appeal to the Ascendant’s Grace. I shall return with his Seven Virtues at the head of a new army and destroy you.”
“Oh, come, come. I have already sent a messenger to the Grace promising him knights, funds, and whatever else he might need from both your lands and mine. Do you really think he will waste his energies on removing me, with the Agerastian threat so dire? Of course not. He will thank me and most likely reward me for my generosity.” He sighed and waved his hand. “Please, spare us all the theatrics. This is done. You have no hand to play. Of course, you could order your knights to their deaths, but that would make you a traitor and I would have to hang you come morning in front of your son. You wouldn’t want to force me to do that, would you? Make him watch as you danced and urinated on yourself at the end of a rope?”
“You make me sick,” said Iskra.
“Of course, it’s not too late to accept my offer.” Lord Laur’s smile turned dark. “Though now you’re going to have to beg.”
“Never.” She resisted the urge to spit in his face. She turned to Ser Wyland and Ser Asho, both of whom had their blades out. “Sheath your weapons.” They hesitated, but then Ser Wyland grimaced and did as he was told, followed moments later by a reluctant Asho.
“Disarm them,” said Mertyn with a lazy wave of his hand. “Let’s remove all temptation for folly, yes?”
“You know I’ll never serve you,” said Iskra. “Nor will my men. What do you intend to do with us? Keep us in a dungeon until my son turns of age?”
“No, that would be tiresome and bad for my image. You are now a Lady Dowager. It is only proper that you retire with dignity to a distant property. Perhaps you could take up a new hobby. Find a way to pass the time.”
Iskra snorted. “You’re a fool as well as a madman.”
Mertyn examined his nails. “Well, I thought it a generous offer. Of course, I get to pick which property you’ll retire to. No sense in placing you where you’ll cause mischief, is there? Which is why I’ve hit upon the perfect solution. An ancient and respected holding of your family, rich with history and character. A little isolated, but that’s not so bad. Of course, you’ll have to leave tonight. An abrupt departure, but I would hate to waste a month.”
Iskra had thought herself inured to further shock. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“No?” He sat up. “You can’t really be surprised. Look at it from my point of view. Tell me it’s not a perfect solution.”
“Mythgræfen Hold is a ruin.”
Mertyn sighed. “Well, I’m sure you will spend no small amount of energy in changing that, won’t you? Think of it as a project. The very hobby I mentioned before.”
Iskra took a step toward him, and Ser Laur’s blade flicked up in alarm. She looked at him in disgust and he lowered his blade. Slowly, she turned back to Mertyn. “You know the legends that surround those stones. You know it’s dangerous. Your sending us there is a death sentence.”
Impatience flickered across Mertyn’s face, and he scowled. “Enough. I said no dramatics. Yes, it is in poor condition, and yes, it’s never been successfully held for long, but you shall change that history with determination and lack of options. Now, I am not a cruel man. I’ll let you take whomever will agree to go with you, along with what furnishings and food supplies you can carry. You have until midnight to prepare. The Lunar Gate will remain open for only five minutes. Anything or anyone that gets left behind will find gainful usage at my hands. Am I clear?”
Iskra stared down at him and tears filled her vision. The reality of what was happening hit her like a slap. He was taking her sweet boy. “Please. Don’t do this. Don’t take my son.”
“Enough!” He stood and turned away. “You have less than an hour. Gather your people and belongings. Kitan, follow me. We’re going to secure the boy.” He turned back sharply. “I have been more than civil. Any nonsense from here on out will be punished with the blade. Am I absolutely clear?”
Iskra felt gutted. Tears ran down her face, but she refused to let her expression crumple with the grief she was feeling. “Oh, yes.
More than clear.” She stared at him, feeling impotent and furious. A great and terrible certainty arose within her. “This is not the end, Mertyn. You’re making the gravest mistake of your life. By my hope of Ascension, I swear it. You’ll rue this day.”
Mertyn shook his head and gestured. His son hurried after him, but both froze at the whisper of a sword being drawn. Kethe stepped out to block the stairs. “You’ll lay hands on Roddick over my dead body.”
Kitan immediately stepped in front of his father, his own blade rising to stop an inch from her own. His smile was grim.
“Stop this foolishness, niece.” Mertyn’s voice was sharp. “Do you think you can defeat every single knight and soldier in the castle before they can start killing your servants and friends?”
“You sick, twisted bastard,” said Kethe, her voice low.
“Yes, yes, get it out of your system. Then step aside. Otherwise I’ll send Ser Cunad to give a certain signal, and the killing will begin. How many deaths will it take before you lay down your blade? Five? Ten? Twenty? I’ll have them bring in the heads if you don’t believe me.”
Kethe grimaced, a spasm of true pain twisting her features. “He’s just a boy.”
“I know.” Something seemed to soften within Mertyn. “He is my nephew. My blood. I will treat him well. I swear you that.” He raised his hands and stepped past Kitan, right up to her blade. “He’s an innocent, and I promise he’ll remain such. But lay down your blade. Don’t cause more suffering. This is now inevitable.”
Kethe bit her lower lip and took her sword with both hands. Iskra felt her heart come close to breaking. “Kethe,” she whispered. “Please. This will only make it worse.”
Kethe slowly lowered her sword and surrendered it to Kitan. He grinned—then he slammed his fist right into her solar plexus. She didn’t even cry out, just crumpled to her knees, gasping.
Asho let out a cry of anger and rushed forward, unarmed, but stopped short when Kitan spun and raised his blade. “Down, Bythian dog.” Kitan smiled coldly. “Or better yet, give me cause to open your stomach.”
Mertyn stepped forward and backhanded Kitan across the cheek, causing his head to snap around. “She is your blood! How dare you?”
“She raised her blade to me,” whispered Kitan, turning back slowly to face his father, tongue probing out to taste the blood that ran down his lip. “Nobody does that without consequences.”
“Get up there,” said Mertyn and shoved his son toward the steps. “Get out of my sight.” He hesitated as Asho knelt by Kethe’s side, face twisted in annoyance, and then turned to Iskra. “You have less than one hour. Go.” Then he too began to climb the stairs.
Iskra sank back into her seat. Ser Cunad and Cunot remained, faces hard, swords drawn. She studied them, then looked at Master Bertchold. “Summon the castle staff and soldiers to the bailey. Have them assemble in the next ten minutes. I will speak with them.”
Kethe finally inhaled with a shuddering gasp and sat up.
“You,” said Ser Wyland, pointing at the twins, “are scum.”
Both men slitted their eyes and twitched their blades.
“What?” Ser Wyland stepped forward. “Are you going to cut me down for speaking the truth? That would be fitting for cowards like you. Scum. I’ve shat out nobler pieces of excrement than you two.” He towered over them both. “Go on.” His voice was a harsh growl. “Prove yourself men.”
“Enough,” said Iskra, rising to her feet. “Ser Asho, help Kethe down to the bailey. Ser Wyland, gather Ser Tiron and whichever other knights are willing to listen. I’ll be down shortly.”
“Where are you going?” Kethe’s voice was breathless.
Iskra stared up the steps. “To see my son. If Laur thinks he can keep me from him, he’s going to have to cut me down. Now go.”
She climbed the steps and pushed open the door to her solarium. Roddick was standing with his back to the wall, a dagger in his hand, staring at Kitan, who was smiling in amusement, sword sheathed. “Mother!”
“Put the knife down, Roddick.”
Lord Laur nodded to her. “Thank goodness. Is your entire family given to hysterics? Tell him the facts of the matter. I’ll give you five minutes.” He stepped outside and Kitan followed, pulling the door closed behind him.
Roddick ran across the room into her arms. She knelt to hug him and held him tight, burying her face in his neck. She inhaled his scent deeply, the warm, clean smell of his hair. It went right through her, and she nearly came undone.
He gripped her tight, then pulled back. “What’s happening? What did Uncle Laur mean, you’re going away without me?”
She smiled at him, a broken smile, and smoothed his thick hair back. Love blossomed within her, breaking down her self-control, shattering her walls. He’d grown so fast. She could still see the baby he had been within his face, the little boy he’d been just a short while ago. That, truly, he still was. “Oh, Roddick. My darling boy. You’re going to have to be brave. You’re going to have to be very strong and very brave for your mother.”
“Is it true?” His voice grew higher. “Are you leaving?”
She took his little hands and brought them to her lips. They were growing, losing the baby fat that had encased them and made them so delightfully pudgy. The dimples over his knuckles had finally disappeared. She turned his hands and kissed his palms, then smiled as best she could again. “Yes. I don’t have a choice, but it won’t be forever. I promise.”
“I don’t want you to go.” He frowned at her, eyes growing liquid with tears. “You can’t go.”
“Oh, my darling boy.” She pulled him in tight again. This was worse than anything; this was like tearing herself in half, ripping her body from left shoulder to right hip. Her love for him went to her core, and leaving him felt like tearing out a tree by the roots, feeling each and every tendril rip out of her soul. “Please. Be strong. I don’t have a choice. Do as your uncle says. Listen to him, but remember.” She pulled back and stared hard at him, giving him a soft shake. “Remember. He is not your friend. Never trust him. Do as he says, but never, ever trust him. Wait for me. I’ll come for you. I promise.”
“Noooo!” he said, voice rising to a wail. “I don’t want you to go!”
She closed her eyes and hugged him again. She wanted to press him into her body, carry him away with her as she had once borne him for nine months. What kind of world could do this? “I love you, and you will be strong, and I will come back, and when I do you will tell me all the wonderful things you have done and seen, and we will be happy.” She held his body against her own, feeling his every bone, feeling how vulnerable and defenseless he was. “Yes? Tell your mother yes.”
“No.” He stared at the ground. “No. No no no.”
“Shh,” she said. “Here.” She took her pendant from around her neck and handed it to him. “Keep this somewhere secret and safe. And whenever you miss me, just look at it, and know that you are in my heart and I love you more than the world. All right?”
He blurred as the tears filled her eyes, but she saw him close his hand around the pendant. “All right.”
“Good.” She wiped at her face briskly with the blade of one hand. “Now, I don’t have any more time. I have to go. Remember what I told you. Don’t trust Uncle Laur or any of his men, but do as they say until I return.” She stood and looked down at him. “Will you do that?”
“Can I still tend the pigeons?” His face was pale, a red dot on each cheek.
She laughed, a shuddering sound that was weak and tender and shot through with pain. “Yes. Of course. Now go to bed. It’s late. Come on.” She led him to his little cot set beside her own large bed, and laid him down, pulling his blanket over him.
“Will you tell me a story?”
“How about a song?” She crouched beside him and stroked his hair.
“The one about the clever little fox,” he said.
“Yes. Just like you. My clever little fox.”
So she stro
ked his hair and sang him his favorite lullaby, and by the time Lord Laur opened the door again, Roddick was fast asleep, his eyelashes lying on his cheeks like thick, dark snowflakes.
Iskra stood and crept away so as not to wake him, then turned to face Lord Laur. “If you harm him–if you hurt a single hair on his head—”
“You have my word as family that I shall treat him honorably.” Lord Laur’s face was grave. “I admit that I am taking advantage of you, but you are an adult. He is a child. I shall see to it that he is loved as if he were my own son.”
“I’ve seen how your son turned out. Spare me that fate.”
Laur’s expression turned hard. “Forty minutes until the Gate opens, my Lady. You’d better run.”
Iskra stepped to the door and turned back for one last look at her son. She stared at him, engraving the sight of him sleeping peacefully in her mind. Then she took a deep breath, turned, and descended quickly down the stairs.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ser Tiron stood in his room in the Stag Tower. It was barren, containing only a cot and an armature on which his rusted armor hung. Frigid air was unspooling into the room through the arrow slit, though after his years spent in a cell that bothered him little.
He stood by the window, holding his blade across his other palm. The light of the full moon set his sword to gleaming. He turned it slowly, causing the faint ripples in the steel to shine. His ancestor had earned it on some bloody battlefield in the service of Aletheia during the Unification. His reward for his deeds that day had been to select any blade he liked from the Ascendant’s private armory. Each successive Ser Tiron had wielded this sword in battle, never losing it or their honor… up until Lord Kyferin had taken it from him.
Six guards had wrestled him to the ground. He’d bellowed like a stuck bull, the sounds he made tearing his throat as he fought them. Hands on his hips, Lord Kyferin had stood watching and smiling. Six men had fought to pull Tiron down, and still he’d found the strength to take a step forward, and then another. He’d wrenched every muscle in his neck, back, thighs and hamstrings. But he’d fought on, this very sword gleaming in his hand. He’d taken a third step, and then a seventh man had piled on, and he’d been driven down to his knees. His cries had been terrible. He’d fought his way back up to both feet, had taken a fourth step, and then collapsed. He’d been pinned to the ground on his back.
