Everyone present bowed their heads and shut their eyes, though Sean risked a glance at Jonas who sat at a table close by. He feared the older man would do something embarrassing, but Jonas reverently observed the call for silence as all the patrons did. Sean smiled in relief, satisfied that Jonas could follow a simple order without question.
“Thank you,” the count continued. “In the old Oberion Empire, the ashes of great warriors were stored in bronze statues so they could stand watch even in death. We honor this tradition with our own living bronze sentinels, who defend the noble lines that stem from the empire. As Justin Trevor has before him, Dio Tranquilli shall stand guard and deflect any blade and arrow that may come for your lord, so tonight we honor his victory and commitment.”
“Hear, hear,” the patrons heartily cried as their champion beamed and nodded at them.
“And let us welcome a special guest, Sean McAlister, who has agreed to become the next in line to be the manor’s house mage. He is an upstanding young man, and we are glad to have him.”
“Hear, hear,” the patrons repeated. They were not so robust this time, but Sean had expected that. He was still a stranger to them, and they had not seen him earn his position. Jonas, however, waved and cried out his name, to which Sean frowned and made a cutting motion with his hand.
The count then lifted his stein, and the patrons followed suit. “Let us toast to the Lord Our God, for his love and mercy; to King Paulson, for his wisdom and grace; and to the brave men and women on the front. Let them all work together to end this war with little in ways of retribution. Hear, hear!”
Sean echoed the closing words with everyone else, a little emotional upon remembering his own time on the frontlines. He had been both witness and purveyor of so much senseless death and destruction, all for a cause that was still a mystery to him, and his experiences had left scars that could not be seen yet would last a lifetime. He gave silent thanks to God for his abrupt turn of fortune, for surely it was God who guided him to Count Guyver, using Callie and Master Cypher as his unwitting tools.
Dio and the count took long sips of their drinks, but Sean hesitated and took a sniff first. The last time he had a brew like this was months ago in St. Mannington, and he hadn’t developed a taste for it yet. Still, he couldn’t be rude as a guest of honor, so he put the stein to his lips and took a small sip, breaking the unwritten rule of drinking deeply for a toast. The mead was predictably bitter yet also sweet from the fermented honey. There was also an underlying sharp taste he couldn’t identify, but he was hardly a gastronome, so for all he knew it was perfectly normal.
“It’s been a good year, I see!” Count Guyver cried as he set his stein down. “Everyone, let us feast!”
The guests politely cheered and tucked in. Jonas wasted no time sinking his teeth into a huge turkey drumstick, and Dio stabbed one of his sirloin slices with a fork and lifted the whole thing to his mouth.
As ravenous as he was, Sean was a stickler for proper table manners, drilled into him by a lifetime of dinners with his imperious father. He used his fork to push aside some maize to make room for a sirloin slice, then dug the prongs into the slice’s center at a steep angle and cut off a modest-sized piece. He then set the knife back down on its napkin, placed the sirloin piece into his mouth, and enjoyed what he was pretty sure was a bit of Heaven that miraculously fell and found its way to his plate. It made all the days of starvation on the road completely worth it—and this was only the first mouthful!
As he was in the middle of cutting off a second piece, the muscles in his neck tightened of their own accord, and a prickling sensation ran down his arms and legs. He tried to gasp but only managed a wheeze. He brought his hands to his throat and opened his mouth wide, the pins-and-needles in his limbs a secondary concern to his vain attempts to take in full breaths. It was as if someone was squeezing his windpipe from the inside—a tiny fairy, or perhaps a ghostly bogle. Of course there was no actual hand, only the deadly effects of a poison someone must have slipped into his drink.
Something crashed to his left, and he turned to a writhing Dio who slammed his fist on the table and flipped his plate, sending his food flying. Like Sean, Dio clutched his throat and held his mouth agape, but in his case there was no wheezing, only the hideous sounds of moist pink flesh trying to work yet failing.
The count arose and demanded to know what the matter was, but his bronze sentinel paid him no mind. He then turned to Sean for answers only to see that he too was in a bad state. A servant, believing that Dio was choking on a bite of food, tried to look into his mouth for the offending item. He then boldly (or foolishly) probed deep into the champion’s mouth with a forefinger, which only served to agitate Dio further. Dio pushed the servant away and attempted to leave his chair only to fall to the ground like a toddler just learning to walk.
Sean tried to leave his seat as well, but his legs quickly gave out on him, and he fell and rolled on his back. How long he lied there, he didn’t know; rather than keep time, he was too busy craning his neck and working his strained lungs as his eyes felt like bulging out of their sockets. A number of worried faces hovered over him, and it was probably Jonas who was shaking him, but he paid them little heed for he felt they could do nothing to help him. He just had to keep breathing, had to work air into his lungs no matter how little he could work in. As long as he did that, he could get through this unexpected nightmare.
But he had to wonder: If a little sip could do this to him, then what was a long sip doing to Dio?
A handful of terrified guests fled the manor and spread the word that the guests of honor had been poisoned. The word spread quickly across the western field, and as more people did the telling, it transformed into wild rumors. Some said that the count himself had been poisoned, and others claimed that everyone at the feast were dropping dead shortly after the toast. Celebrators began to believe that their own food was laced with poison, and they demanded answers from the cooks and servants, many of whom weren’t even on the manor’s payroll.
As fear and disquiet dampened the festivities, one man was oddly cheerful. After staying stone sober throughout the day, he chose now to sit at an outdoor banquet table with two steel mugs of frothy brown ale. He polished the first one in minutes, then told personal tales of adventures to anyone who would listen as he worked on his second. He claimed to have been a sailor who traveled to distant lands and seen exotic people who were all heathens to their rotten cores, plus a mountain in a jungle where a dragon rested and an arid desert where basilisks could turn you to stone with a glance.
One of his listeners was a beautiful woman about ten years his junior, who was so into him that she couldn’t keep her hands off him.
Or so she’d like him to think.
“So what’s your name?” Callie asked as she trailed a finger through the long dark hair just above his ear.
The man burped and smiled broadly at her with wicked intent in his eyes. “Darrel Noors, at your service, darling. And what’s yours?”
Callie giggled while flashing her pearly whites and gave him her true name. “And what kind of ‘service’ could you offer me?”
“Darling, I did a lot of things in my time, but sailing’s been my one passion. When a ship runs into rocks and gets some holes, I go down and fill ’em up … and I’m good at it ’cause I can make things fit together, if you know what I’m talking about.”
Callie giggled again as if flattered by his subtle meaning.
“Don’t you think you need a little repairing, darling?”
Ignoring the question, she asked, “Did you fight in the trials?”
“Why, yes, I did,” Darrel said, adjusting himself on the bench. “I fought in two of ’em. The first I won, no contest, but the other … well, I got cheated on.”
“You were?” Callie exclaimed, gasping in shock.
“Yup, I were. You see, there’s this technique I
use that no one else can do ’cause nobody knows about it. I call it the ‘Noors Special.’ I can’t really say much about it ’cause I don’t wanna give it away, but it works for me every time.”
“Except last time.”
Darrel grumbled and looked away, but Callie improved his mood by rubbing his forearm. “It works every time unless someone cheats. I totally had him, but he blocked me and made me lose. I argued with that damned mediator, but he said the block was fair, so I lost. Me! I never lose unless someone cheats! You believe me, right, honey?”
“Yeah, sweetie, I hear you.” She put a hand on his shoulder and stroked his neck with her thumb. “You oughtta show me that Noors Special sometime.”
“Well … maybe tomorrow, when I’m sober. I don’t want to cut your head off, honey.”
She laughed and trailed a fingertip down his scar, which ran across his left cheek and partway up his temple. “Where’d you get this?”
He gently took her hand and caressed the fingers on the tabletop. “This I got from a pirate attack in Knight’s Cove. Stupid bloomin’ captain said the cove was empty, so we could do ship repairs no problem. Marauders came at us when we were well into their hideout. Fight for our lives, we did, and I was one of the lucky ones who escaped through the caverns. Had to leave the ship for those bastards to molest, but at least I only have this scar as a reminder. Got one of ’em curled swords of theirs, nearly took my eye.”
She raised an eyebrow, wondering if this was another of his obvious tall tales. The scar certainly was long enough for a sword to have made it, but it wasn’t very deep. Something with less heft, such as a nail or a dagger, was probably responsible.
“Don’t you like it?” Darrel asked.
“I think scars make a man more than his clothes do,” she said with a winning smile, and she leaned over to suckle his ear with moistened lips.
Once she was done, she giggled at his delighted expression. He caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers and said, “You wanna go somewhere else to, ah … do repairs? I have a place in town, should take us a few minutes to get there …”
“Oh, but I know a better place. Come with me!”
Needing no persuasion, Darrel was led by the hand away from the table and into the crowds. Sex was likely the last thing on the minds of the countless upset and dispirited people, making Darrel something of an anomaly, but he’d be damned if the moody atmosphere would keep him from plowing this stunning young woman. He wouldn’t even mind if they were going to a muddy riverbank or a spot amid the crops where children could discover them. In fact, doing it in an open location might be pretty exciting.
He had assumed she would take him away from the manor’s perimeter wall, but she instead led him closer. He thought about pointing this out but decided not to. No use in starting a fight while their blood was hot; he may as well trust her for now.
After working her way past dozens of warm bodies on this chilly night, Callie finally halted at a group of guards amid a collection of tents used as outdoor kitchens. Just over an hour ago, heaps of food were being served from these tents, but now they were a hotbed of guard activity as every trained eye was looking for signs of poison. Judging from the relative calm of the people, no one had actually gotten sick from poison here, but law enforcers were afraid a widespread poisoning effort was being made. What possible reason there was for it, none could be sure of.
One man wore a steel-and-leather helm with a distinctive insignia marking him as a captain. Callie strode up to him while holding onto Darrel’s arm and lovingly caressing his neck. “Hi, captain!” she said in the most bubbly manner she could muster. “You are a captain, aren’t you? How goes things?”
“Uh, begging your pardon, ma’am, but we’re in the middle of an investigation …”
“Oh, I know, but I wanted you to meet my new friend here … um, what was your name again? Darin? David? Dorkly?”
“It’s Darrel,” he said in a small voice, nervously eyeing the armed men.
Callie made a hysterical giggle. “Oh, Darrel, that’s right! How could I forget? You guys look all the same to me. Well, captain, Darrel’s going to be my new husband because I know all about him. He’s a sailor who fought pirates, he saw a dragon in a jungle—everything!”
The captain glanced at his fellows beside him with an amused smirk. “That’s good, ma’am. I’ll be your best man if you want, but could you please leave us to our work?”
“Oh, but captain, I want you to know more about him, too!”
“You heard the man, honey,” Darrel murmured. “Let’s just go; we can set up marriage plans for later.”
“I mean, just look at his hands,” Callie cried, holding up Darrel’s left hand for inspection. “Look at these strong hands of his! I bet he can lift a horse with one hand alone!”
“Dearie, if you don’t stop this nonsense—” the captain started.
“Captain,” Callie said, brooking no argument. “Look at his fingernails. Just look at them.” She smiled at him, though her eyes were intense. She waited till the captain leaned in to look, then continued: “If you take a sample of what’s under his nails, you might find that it’s burkleweed.”
Darrel gasped and yanked his hand away, looking accusingly at her.
“You know what burkleweed is.” It was more of a statement than a question. She smirked as the captain looked intently at the man before him.
Still tipsy and feeling like he was invincible, Darrel turned and dashed into the nearest tent. With booted footsteps sounding loudly in his ears, he turned over racks with piles of dishes behind him and punched a cook in the face for being in his way. He exited through the tent’s other side, found a group of unsuspecting guards, and ran in the opposite way. He leapfrogged over a man who was bent over as he vomited, and he ducked into another tent filled with messy banquet tables where a few brave souls still ate.
Once he left this second tent, he was a little certain he would escape. He looked behind him and couldn’t see any pursuers, and heavy footfalls seemed disorderly. Still, he wasn’t yet in the clear; with some luck, he could lose them in the crowd. He plunged into the sea of people, alternating between walking and jogging. When he entered a clearing, he checked again for followers, and his heart jumped when angry shouts rose above the ambient voices.
He quickened his pace, wondering why in the hell things had to suddenly go so wrong for him. If only he hadn’t trusted that girl, that floosy, he’d still be drinking now, drowning in cheap booze while wrapped in a comfy shroud of warm satisfaction.
Never trust a woman, Da always used to say. Dammit, why did I never listen to him?
He delved further into the crowd, mumbling apologies as he squeezed through tightly packed gatherings. After about a minute of this, he grew confident again. He had to have given the guards the slip after being out of their sight for so long. It was too bad he couldn’t show his face in town after tonight; he’ll have to hitch a ride to somewhere else. Perhaps Asturia had a warm place for him—one that included the bed of a grieving widow who lost her husband in battle.
Little did he know that Callie was still hot on his heels. She had lost him a few times but was able to keep track by surmising what course he’d take. She spotted him ambling through an uncovered dining area, trying his best to blend in with the slightly spooked townspeople. She picked up a rare ceramic plate and darted past several groups to get a clear view of him. There were too many people milling about, however, so she anxiously threw caution to the winds and stepped atop the nearest banquet table. A few people protested, but fortunately Darrel wasn’t alarmed. With a small prayer that she hadn’t lost her touch, she planted her feet, curled her arm while squatting, and threw the plate.
It swooshed through the air like a diving falcon and landed on the back of Darrel Noors’ head. He flinched and clutched the impact area, then attempted to run on unsteady feet. Callie
sprinted further down the table then jumped near her quarry and rammed into him, knocking him down. She rolled him onto his back and punched his fearful face. “You shithead! Did you really think you’d get away with it?”
She shook him by the collar and thought about hurting him more, but she then took a deep breath and controlled herself. Getting angry at him wasn’t going to fix things; besides, he appeared incapacitated and there was the sound of approaching guards. Still, she couldn’t help but bring her snarling face close to his and add one more thing: “If you killed my friend, I swear I’ll put your head on the chopping block myself!”
It was hard to keep track of time, concentrating as he was on staying alive, but at some point Sean was carried to the mansion. He now sat on a bench in the front hall with Jonas beside him. The older man was beside himself, constantly asking Sean if he was okay. Sean suffered his questions until he finally asked him to cease.
“But, Sean, how will I know when you get better unless I ask?” Jonas reasoned. Sean only shut his eyes and shook his head in irritation.
Master Harris came by, escorted by three guards who were ordered to bring the house mage to the afflicted. To Sean’s surprise, Harris was genuinely horrified at seeing his young apprentice struggle to breathe. He pointed out that Sean had a pale face, and he asked if his student had any other symptoms. Only able to form a few words between breaths, Sean mentioned the prickly feeling throughout his whole body, though he could move if he ignored the discomfort.
“Please, sir,” Sean said in a small voice. “Go see … Dio … He’s worse off …”
Harris nodded and made to head away. “You know what this is? Court politics, that’s what. You shouldn’t get yourself involved any further.”
With the master gone, Sean went back to maintaining a steady rhythm with his breathing, making pretend that he was merely taking in freezing air on a winter’s day. At times he stared at a nearby painting of a vase of daffodils, and that helped with his concentration, especially as he worked to get air past a buildup of phlegm in his pipes.
The Hunt for the Three Roses Page 18
