by Phil Tucker
Only then had Lord Kyferin approached. The sun had been bright behind his head. Hoarse shouts and sobs had come from the caravan as Kyferin stood over him, smiling. “Death’s too easy an escape for traitors like you. You mark my words: I’m going to petition the Ascendant himself for the right to open the Black Gate and throw you through it. You’re going straight to hell, Tiron. Until then? You’ll rot.” Then Kyferin had placed his boot on Tiron’s wrist and pressed down until Tiron had been forced to release his sword.
Kyferin had knelt to take the blade, and in doing so brought his face close to Tiron’s ear. “I strangled her even as I took her. To this day, I don’t know if she died before I came.”
Madness had descended. Tiron shuddered as he recalled the snap. He’d heard it, within his mind, within his soul, a sound like the sundering of a dry twig. He’d broken right there and then, had bucked and heaved and screamed. Lord Kyferin had laughed and walked away, Tiron’s family blade resting over his shoulder. Moments later, someone had started punching him in the face, over and over, but it didn’t seem to do any good. The pain was distant and irrelevant. Finally they’d resorted to kicks, and the world had gone black.
Ser Tiron turned the blade over and fought a shudder. After that day, the world had turned monochrome. He’d lived on with the slim hope that fate might give him a chance at revenge. It was the only thing worth living for. Honor, love, wealth, joy—all of that was ashes. All that remained was Lord Kyferin’s smiling face, and a base, bestial need to crush it.
The sound of voices filtered in from the stairwell. Ser Tiron sheathed his blade and turned as his door was shoved open. Ser Kitan Laur stood there, his plate armor refulgent in the candlelight, four Laur soldiers behind him. “Ser Tiron. May I have a word with you?”
Ser Tiron kept his hand on the pommel of his sword. “No. Piss off.”
Kitan smiled and stepped inside. “I see captivity has done wonders for your eloquence, but I must insist. One moment is all I ask. You’ll find it worth your while.”
Ser Tiron rocked back on his heels. “You’re a worm, Kitan. Before I might have kept that opinion to myself, but now I see no reason not to speak my mind. You’re a boot-licking, crotch-sniffing, spineless worm. Get out before I take off your head.”
A vicious expression of contempt and amusement crossed Kitan’s face, and he drew his own blade. “Watch yourself, old man. You might have been a threat before you were thrown in that hole, but now? Don’t make me laugh.”
“Let’s find out, shall we?” Ser Tiron drew his sword.
“No, I’d rather not. It would be ignomious to cut you down in your own bed chamber. Of course I could challenge you for killing Ser Bero, but the man was little more than a beast. I don’t think anyone will miss him. No, I’m serious about giving you a message. Or have you forgotten your dead wife so quickly?”
The lazy smile died on Ser Tiron’s face, and his glove creaked as he tightened his grip on his sword. “Well, now.” His voice turned soft. “Now I’m going to really enjoy this.”
Kitan sighed and raised his hands. “Diplomacy has never been my strong suit, though you’ve made this encounter far more difficult than it should have been. Lady Kyferin has been banished. I assume you plan to go with her?”
Ser Tiron nodded slowly.
“As I thought. And I can guess why. My father and I know the truth about what happened to your late wife and son. Lord Kyferin spoke of it one night while in his cups. I’ll tell you straight: Lord Laur was sickened.” Kitan watched Tiron closely. “I can’t imagine what you must have gone through, and I know you don’t want my pity. So here’s my point: you want revenge. Of course you do. Why else follow Kyferin’s bitch into banishment? Any true man would want what you want—vengeance. When you kill her and her daughter too, Lord Laur will consider you a friend. You’ll be welcomed into his service should you seek it, or given your own plot of land and left alone.” He paused. “Am I being clear?”
Ser Tiron sneered. “Only too clear.”
“There’s one thing I can’t figure out,” said Kitan. “Why did Iskra let you out? She must know you’re untrustworthy. That you’ll want revenge.”
Ser Tiron sheathed his blade. “Maybe she believes in redemption.”
“Redemption?” Kitan considered the thought, then laughed. “Tell me she’s not so naive. By the Ascendant. Women! Now, what shall I tell Lord Laur?”
The nature of Ser Tiron’s stare cased Kitan to stiffen. “Tell him that I don’t want or need his protection or support. What I’ll do, I’ll do for myself alone. Now get the hell out of here.”
“Good enough,” said Kitan cheerfully. “As long as you get it done.” He stopped at the door. “Just don’t turn soft. Remember your dead wife and son if you start feeling any sympathy for the bitch, yes?”
Tiron took a step forward. “Stupid boy. You should not have said those words.” His grin was sickly and he felt feverish. “Come back in here. I’ve a deep yearning to kill you. I’d like to plant my boot on your chest and pull off that yapping jaw of yours, tear it free and then grind my boot in your bloody gullet. You ready?”
Kitan’s smile vanished. “Watch yourself.”
“No? Too scared? Then get out,” said Tiron. “The sight of your face makes me sick, and that takes some doing.”
Kitan glared at him. “If my father didn’t want you alive—”
“You mewling, cowardly toad, GET OUT!”
In a flash Ser Tiron had his blade in hand and swung it down with all his strength at the wide-eyed Kitan, who leaped back and slammed the door closed. Tiron’s sword thunked into the old ironwood and stuck there, quivering.
Tiron groaned and backed away. He pressed his knuckles into his eyes. His head was pounding. He turned and stumbled back to his cot, where he sat heavily, fighting the throbbing waves of grief and fury that threatened to drown him. He saw Sarah’s face, heard Kyferin’s laughter, and all he could do was writhe impotently with no outlet for his fury. How could Kyferin be dead? How could the Ascendant have robbed him of his vengeance? He roared and stood and threw himself at the wall, crashing into it and then leaning against the cold stone, gasping as he fought back the tears he hated so much.
Any true man would want what you want. Vengeance.
Kitan’s words rung in his mind like the peal of a bell. Tiron grew still, staring blindly at the stone as he pictured Iskra and Kethe. He thought of Sarah, of his son. Heard Kyferin’s laughter again, and stood.
He’d vowed revenge on Lord Kyferin while rotting in his dungeon, a revenge so total and annihilating that it had animated his every breath, had driven him to go on living long after his Sarah had been lowered into the ground. Kyferin was gone, but he could still have his vengeance.
Turning, he walked slowly to the door, feet dragging, and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword.
Vengeance.
With a sharp yank he tugged it free.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A pounding on Audsley’s door awoke him with a cry. He wrestled with his sheets and blanket, kicking and struggling, and heard Aedelbert’s indignant mrhaoi as he leaped to the floor. He reached out in the dark for his nightstand where his spectacles lay, almost knocked them over, then rose to one elbow and placed them on his nose. With the shutters pulled and thick curtains hanging over the windows, the room was muffled and dark. Sitting up, heart pounding, he called out, “Who is it?”
The door cracked open, ruddy torchlight spilling in behind the guard. “Apologies for waking you, Magister, but everyone’s being summoned to the bailey. Lady Kyferin’s command. Right now, like.” Then he pulled the door shut and plunged Audsley back into darkness.
“Now? Wait! Are we under attack?” He scrambled out from under his covers and hurried to the window, where he yanked aside the curtains and threw open the shutters. Immediately freezing air washed over him, but he leaned out bravely to peer at the inky landscape below. No army, no torches, no catapults being readied for a
n assault. Mystified, he slammed the window shut and fumbled over to pick up his candle. He knelt and held it out, and a moment later a flame flared to life as Aedelbert licked the wick. Audsley set it on his bedside table and set about getting dressed.
“Summoned to the bailey, he says. No further explanations! What am I, a magister or a groom?”
“Mrhao,” said Aedelbert, and hopped up onto the bed to watch him intently, his eyes catching the candlelight and flaring gold.
“Yes, quite,” said Audsley. “But I do hate to cause a fuss. Regardless, we shall soon see.”
A few minutes later he threw on his cloak and hurried out the door, only to turn and rush back to place the candle in a lantern and hurry back out again, only to return for his satchel, into which he threw some parchment, a spare quill, a stoppered vial of ink, and his Noussian glass. Aedelbert, having expected his various returns, waited till the last to hop up onto Audsley’s shoulders and settled down comfortably.
He stepped out of the Ferret Tower into bedlam. A large crowd was gathered in the bailey, most holding candles or lanterns, swaddled in sheets or huddling together in the cold. Stumbling forward, he saw soldiers everywhere, none familiar, facing the crowd with their hands on the hilts of their swords. Knights, too. Lord Laur’s men, he realized, wearing hauberks and helms.
He saw Elon the smith and hurried over. “What’s going on?”
Elon had his biggest hammer with him, casually resting it over his shoulder. “No idea, Magister Audsley.” The smith’s voice was a barely audible rumble. “But from the look of things, nothing good.”
“Oh, dear,” said Audsley, pushing his spectacles back up his nose.
Aythe the baker was there, the pages and stable boys, the cooper and butler. Master Bertchold was standing beside an empty cart which was clearly going to be used as a platform from which to address the crowd. Everybody was present, he saw, including a large number of their own soldiers, some of them with cuts and scrapes on their faces and none with blades in their scabbards.
“By the Black Gate,” he whispered. “The castle’s been taken.”
“What?” Elon hunched over. “You think?”
Audsley nodded. “Quick. What should we do?” He pressed his fingertips to his lips. “Lady Kyferin called this assembly, so she’s not being held prisoner. Yet she’s clearly being forced to act. Do you think—”
The muttering all around him stilled as Lady Kyferin emerged from the barbican. She looked like a vision, a thick white fur robe draped around her shoulders and hanging to her heels, a gray gown of thick wool beneath. She was accompanied by Asho and Ser Wyland, with Kethe following, all of them still in their feasting finery.
“What’s going on, my Lady?” yelled a soldier.
She ignored the question and took Ser Wyland’s hand as he helped her step onto the cart’s wheel, then up onto its back. She stood gazing out over the crowd, her face somber. Audsley felt his dread deepen and he resisted the urge to take hold of Elon’s hand.
“My friends, we are undone. Lord Laur has installed himself as my son’s ward against my wishes and has demanded that I remove myself at midnight through the Raven’s Gate to Mythgræfen Hold.”
The crowd erupted into exclamations of shock and wonder, and Audsley saw the foreign soldiers stiffen in anticipation. Aedelbert sat up in alarm, but Lady Kyferin raised her hands and the crowd stilled.
“Lord Laur has stated that any who wish to accompany me through the Gate may do so. No one here is compelled to go, and I wish to say it plainly: I do not expect any of you to come. Mythgræfen Hold is a ruin, and all of you know its reputation. You would be following me into exile and perhaps worse.” She smiled then, and that smile, broken and kind and sorrowful, pierced Audsley’s heart like an arrow. “You are all brave and good people. I would not wish the dangers I am to face on any of you. So please, step forth if you wish to follow me, but know that I will rejoice at the sight of each and every one of you who choose to stay. For now more than ever we must have faith in the Ascendant. His Grace shall act as soon as he hears of this, but until then we must accede to Lord Laur’s demands.”
Again the angry whispers sprang up, as if the canopy of a great forest were being shaken by a stern wind. Audsley couldn’t swallow. Mythgræfen Hold, known as The Doomed, where countless soldiers and knights had died and disappeared. The outpost that could not be held. People were arguing with each other, most of them looking down shamefacedly, or away altogether.
Elon started forward. Audsley startled, hesitated, and then thought to himself: be bold! Immediately he stepped after the smith. The crowd parted before them, falling away, and in moments Audsley found himself before the cart, staring up in fear at Lady Kyferin. She looked down upon him, and her smile near cracked his heart all over again. He felt a frisson of terror and excitement. Mythgræfen Hold! Ser Wyland, Asho, and Kethe all moved around to stand with them. Brocuff the constable stepped up along with ten other soldiers, but Master Bertchold walked away to join the great crowd that was hanging back. Marshall Thiemo was staring at the ground. Audsley peered around, trying to catch sight of Father Simeon, but couldn’t see him anywhere. Ser Tiron emerged from the crowd, fully armored and growling at people who didn’t move aside quickly enough. A handful of other servants joined them; Audsley recognized an undercook and a baker, along with two grooms and Elon’s apprentice, Edwyn.
Lady Kyferin waited a moment longer and then looked down at the twenty or so people who had stepped forward. “You don’t know what your loyalty means to me. I will never be able to thank you enough, but we’ve precious little time. The Gate opens soon. We must be ready. Please, gather your belongings and then meet me at the keep roof as quickly as you can.”
Ser Wyland helped her down, and then she was gone. The crowd erupted in a roar of outrage.
Ser Laur leaped up easily onto the cart, which creaked dangerously under his weight. “Listen up! Lord Laur was your Lord’s brother. It is right that he be Roddick’s guardian, and he shall discharge this duty with all honor! By what right does he take this duty? The right born of blood! He is a fair master, and he shall see your walls safe and guarded by loyal men. Your lives will not change. The only change is that your future is now assured. Now, everyone disperse. To bed! I want this bailey cleared but for those who are fleeing through the Gate. Go!”
The crowd began to break up. Audsley stood there wide-eyed until Elon clapped him on the shoulder, causing Aedelbert to flare his wings in alarm. “Hurry, my friend. We’ve precious little time. Do you need help with your belongings?”
Audsley pressed his fingers to his temples. His belongings? How was he to carry everything that he needed? “Yes,” he whispered. “By the White Gate, yes! Brocuff!” He hurried over to the constable, who was giving his men orders. “Please! Two of your men—by all that’s sacred, I need them now!”
Brocuff hesitated and then gave a curt nod. “Janderke, Ord, help Magister Audsley.”
Audsley almost wilted in relief. He knew Ord from a few card games he’d joined on the sly earlier that year in the barbican—he was a man with caustic wit—but Janderke was a hulking new guard he’d only seen about the yard. “Thank you, thank you. Now, please hurry. Follow me.”
He led them up the Ferret Tower stairs to his room and threw open the door, lantern held in one shaking hand. Aedelbert flew from his shoulder to the far windowsill. Moving forward, he set the lantern on the center of the table and then stopped, despair swamping him. He needed a week to pack up, not twenty minutes, and three carts, not two pairs of arms. He turned in a slow circle, wanting to pull out his hair, and then shook himself. “All right. Quick, gather those sacks. I’ll place scrolls here for you to put in them, Ord. Be careful! Janderke, I’ll set out cases for you to pack. Again, by your hope of Ascension, be careful with these treasures!”
Choosing which scrolls and ledgers to take was like choosing which teeth to keep. Agonizing, he drew forth one tube only to replace it and draw another, the
n curse and take out both. He withdrew boxes from beneath his bed, pulled down charts from his walls and rolled them up, gathered his writing materials, five large jars of ink, his blank vellum, his personal Silver Triangle, his various lenses, his runic stones. The pile on the table mounted, and both guards strove to pack everything away in the increasingly heavy bags.
“Magister, it’s time.” Ord placed his second sack on the table next to the first.
“But—one moment more. I know it’s here somewhere. I can’t leave without—”
“Sorry, but if we don’t go now, we won’t be going at all.” Ord swung one bag over his left shoulder, and caught the second under his right arm. “I’m heading up to the keep. Janderke?”
“Ready,” grunted the other man, bear-hugging a massive and unwieldy sack to his chest.
“All right, all right.” Audsley threw a random assortment of clothing onto his bed, then wrapped it all up in his covers and threw the rough sausage over his shoulder. He hurried after both men to the door, then turned to stare back at his room.
His satchel! He ran back in, threw it over his neck and picked up the lantern. So many wonders left behind. So much precious knowledge.
He ran back to the door again and stopped. He’d forgotten Amethaes’ Celestial Rubric. And the Genealogies of Prim. And his Ur-crystal!
Aedelbert hopped up onto his shoulder and licked his cheek. Audsley groaned, turned, and ran down after the two soldiers, cursing Lord Laur each step of the way.
