They had reached the bottom of the steps by this time, and Cariad paused and stripped off his gloves. “Bring us some of that ale, then, and a cup of wine for my lady, and a dish of whatever your cook is proudest of tonight.” He smiled down at Juilene and guided her to a table tucked in an alcove by the fire, leaving the landlord babbling in their wake.
Juilene smiled in spite of herself. The timbers in the ceiling were black with age, and the hearth was big enough for both of them to stand upright. A log thicker than a man burned in the enormous grate. The place looked clean enough, she thought as Cariad pulled out a chair for her.
“Will you sit, my lady?” He whispered it in her ear, and his breath tickled the soft skin of the nape of her neck. His fingers caressed her briefly, and he bent and swiftly kissed her cheek.
She gasped.
“Is anything wrong?” he asked as he took his place beside her.
“N-no. It’s just—” She looked down and twined her fingers together.
“Just what?” he prompted gently.
“Just that I thought you were angry with me all day. You seemed so distant—so closed off. I wasn’t sure whether”—she bit her lip and finished in a rush—“if you regretted last night, or not.”
“Oh, Juilene.” He covered her hand with his, and his palm was warm. She looked at him, and saw the deep circles beneath his eyes. Suddenly he looked very weary and older than she had ever seen him. “Forgive me. I’ve been troubled these last days, that’s true, but not because of you. And believe me, I don’t regret last night and I only hope you don’t either, because I was hoping—” He stopped and grinned at her.
She raised one brow.
“I was hoping the same would happen tonight.” His grin made him look like a mischievous boy rather than a man worn by care.
She flushed. “Well.” She looked away, into the fire, and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I suppose it could—as long as you aren’t angry with me.”
“How could I be angry with you?” He picked up her hand and kissed it “It’s only—” He paused. “It’s only that when you have heard my story, you may be the one who regrets last night.”
She cocked her head as the serving maid set a brimming tankard before Cariad and a clay goblet of wine in front of her. “There you are, folks,” the girl announced with a cheery voice. “Supper’ll be right out—do you want cheese and butter with your bread?”
“Both,” they answered together, then looked at each other and laughed.
“Very well,” the maid replied with a knowing smile, and went off.
Cariad leaned forward and spoke softly, even though there was no one within earshot. “I can’t tell you here—but tonight—later—I promise.”
“Cariad, whatever it is, how could it be so bad that I would regret last night? I love you,” Juilene said, and as soon as the words left her mouth, she knew they were the ruest words she had ever spoken. “It doesn’t matter to me—what’s past is done.”
“Oh, my dear,” he sighed as the serving maid approached once more, with two dishes piled high with steaming food, “would that that were true. Would that that were true.” He turned away, then, even as the maid placed the food in front of them, and although Juilene’s mouth watered, she hesitated. But there was a closed, pinched look about his lips, and she knew that she could ask all she pleased, and he would say nothing until he was ready.
She picked up her knife with a sigh. The meat was covered in thick brown gravy. Tiny pieces of herbs floated on the surface. She cut off a tiny piece and placed it in her mouth.
As the rich taste filled her mouth, she happened to glance up as another traveler entered the inn. He wore a worn cloak, and his face was obscured by a ragged beard. Everything about him suggested he had been on the road a long time. Then his cloak fell back, and the uniform he wore beneath it was revealed. Juilene’s face paled as she recognized her father’s colors. Cariad saw her expression and turned, still chewing.
“What’s wrong?”
“That man—” Juilene whispered. “My father—those are his colors.” She couldn’t help but stare as the man shrugged off the cloak. There could be no doubt, for the badge he wore upon his chest was the crest of her father’s house. She lowered her eyes by force of habit, and in that moment, the man happened to glance her way.
Their eyes met, and shock and recognition dawned in his tired face. “Lady Juilene!” he cried, ignoring the land-lord’s greeting. “By the goddess—Lady Juilene, at last!”
Cariad got to his feet. “Greetings, friend. Will you join us?” He spoke quietly, his tone and his look full of meaning, and the soldier bit his lip, responding at once to the implicit warning.
In midstride, the soldier checked his step. “Thank you, sir. I will, with your permission.”
Juilene stared, her food nearly forgotten as Cariad ordered another flagon of ale and another plate of food. She knew this man. His name was Skar, and he had been in her father’ service more years than she had been alive. In the last few years, he had become the captain of her father’s house guards—the most respected and trusted of all his men. “Skar,” she whispered as the man approached, his travel-worn face alight with what could only be relief.
“My lady Juilene,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I have searched for you since Festival—your father is sick with grief. I cannot believe I’ve found you at last.” He turned to Cariad. “You will have the gratitude of Thane Jiroud, sir, if you have kept his daughter safe. May I know the honor of your name?”
“My name is Cariad,” Cariad answered. “Sit with us. You look as though you’ve traveled more miles than we have.”
Skar sank into the chair opposite Juilene. “With your permission, lady.” He paused for a moment, looking across the room. “I never thought to sit at table with my lord’s daughter. Whoever would have thought it?”
“I am so happy to see you, Skar,” Juilene said. The reality of seeing someone from home, from her father, shocked her to the very core. So her father had never given up looking for her. “How is my father?”
Skar drew a deep breath and glanced at Cariad. The two men exchanged a long look and Cariad resumed his seat just as the serving maid placed another platter before Skar.
“Let the man have a bite to eat, love.” Cariad picked up his own knife. “We have only just arrived ourselves, sir.”
Juilene cut and chewed and swallowed her food automatically as the men dug into their portions. Skar’s eyes were fastened on his plate, and as the moment dragged on in silence, she wondered what he wasn’t telling her. “Please,” she said at last. “Tell me what’s happened at home.”
Skar put his knife down and glanced at Cariad. Cariad nodded imperceptibly. “Give us the news of Sylyria.”
The man sighed. His beard was more white than silver, and he looked very old. “I wish I could tell you, lady. But the border of Sylyria is sealed against the world. No one can get in or out. I have tried—chance brought me to this inn tonight. The pass is closed.”
“Sealed?” Cariad leaned forward, his voice low. “What do you mean?”
Skar shook his head. “After Lindos—” His face twisted, as though the name itself left a foul taste on his tongue. “After he became the Over-Thurge, he ordered the borders sealed until all the troubles, as he called them, were over. I left right before his election. And I have not been able to get home.”
Juilene glanced at Cariad. “Then—how will we get home?”
“You can’t, my lady.” Skar shook his head.
“What do you mean, sealed?” asked Cariad.
“He’s used his magic, sir. The situation among the thanes was bad enough when I left. I have the feeling it’s even worse now.” He looked down, and Juilene knew the man felt he had abandoned his post.
“How was my father when you left?” Juilene asked softly.
“Worried sick about you, lady.” Skar met her eyes with a sudden ferocity. “What happened to you? Where have you been all t
hese months?”
“I—I had to run away, Skar. Lindos put a curse on me.”
It was the grizzled soldier’s turn to stare. “In the name of the goddess, my lady. Why didn’t you go to your father? He would have done anything to help you.”
“That’s the trouble,” she replied. “He couldn’t have helped me—it would only have brought the curse down upon him. And I couldn’t let that happen to my father—to anyone in Sarrasin. So I had no choice but to leave.”
Skar’s eyes narrowed, as though he couldn’t quite believe that there was nothing that the all-powerful lord of Sarrasin couldn’t accomplish, but he didn’t challenge her. “Your father was sick with grief, my lady.”
“I know.” She looked down at her plate and toyed with scraps of food. She drew a deep breath and raised her eyes to his. “But the curse is broken, Skar. And now I can go home, without fear of harming anyone there.” She smiled.
Skar shook his head. “I wish that were true, my lady. But I have tried more times than I can count to get over the border to Sylyria. And it’s just not possible.” He leaned forward and when he spoke, his voice was low. “But now—just this week I have heard rumors—rumors that the King is very close at hand—that one of the master-thurges is willing to help—” He broke off and glanced around, as though the room itself had ears. “There is a resistance forming. That’s where I was headed. To the keep of a master-thurge named Deatrice.”
Juilene raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Why,” she said, “I know that lady—I was at her keep before the Year’s End—” She glanced at Cariad, who stared into the fire with a grim expression. “Cariad, Skar is on his way—”
“I heard him.” Cariad looked from one to the other. “The King is there?”
Skar shrugged. “I’m not sure. Close by if not yet there. I have heard that Deatrice allows certain people through at certain times of day.”
“How do you know it’s not a trap?” Juilene asked.
“It isn’t,” Cariad said softly, an unreadable expression on his face.
Juilene turned to him. “And how do you know that?” she demanded.
He met her eyes with a long look but said nothing. Instead, he addressed Skar. “And what else have you heard?”
Skar shook his head. “Little else. They say the King and what thanes he can gather are planning an attack upon Lindos—that this Deatrice and several of the other master-thurges have joined with the King, and will help in the assault. But other than that, I won’t know until I get there.” He looked at Juilene. “Come with me, lady. Even if your father isn’t there—surely there will be someone who knows something of your father’s fate. And you, sir—you, too, would be welcome. Every hand is needed in this fight.”
Cariad drew a deep breath. “You’re right about that, Skar. More right than you know.” And for the rest of the meal he was silent, even as Juilene and Skar discussed a plan for the morrow.
The linen towels were frayed at the edges, but the water was hot, and the soap was fat and sweetly scented with herbs. Juilene slid down farther into the high-backed wooden tub and sighed. She felt as though she might turn to liquid. How long had it been since she had had a proper bath like this? Weeks, she knew, as she dipped down beneath the surface and let the hot water massage her scalp. The long strands of her hair floated and swirled around her. She picked up the soap and scrubbed herself from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.
Cariad and Skar lingered by the fire in the common room, though whether or not they talked, she couldn’t imagine. Cariad’s silence had worried her, had puzzled and perplexed her and made her realize how little she knew of this man whose actions proved he loved her for herself alone. He had become so very distant, saying little, so clearly absorbed in his own thoughts. Was it merely the thought of confronting Lindos? Or was it something more? He had confronted Diago without hesitation, and Diago had been nearly as dangerous.
She shivered at the very thought of meeting Lindos once more. And this time his power was even greater than it had been the last time. But wasn’t that what they wanted?
What if the old man was wrong? she wondered. What if Cariad wasn’t the non-born knight, any more than Arimond had been? After all, what in the world was a non-born knight?
She slipped lower into the water, and let it close over the top of her head. It seemed that she had been running for so long. She was tired. Dramue, bring me home, she prayed. If it’s your will that everything ends by Lindos’s hand, let us all be together, at least.
She had just surfaced when the door opened and she heard Cariad’s step on the floor on the other side of the screen the landlord had had set up around the tub.
“Juilene?” He spoke with the same familiar gentleness she had come to expect.
“I’m here.” She flung a few drops of water over the screen.
“Oh, I see.” He peeked around the screen, and Juilene blushed and ducked down modestly beneath the water. “What are you hiding under there, my lady?”
She giggled. “Come and see.” Her answer shocked her own ears. What on earth did Skar think of her appearance in the unchaperoned company of this obviously very virile knight? But then, there was so much more to think about—who cared, after all, what company she kept?
She heard the sounds of Cariad stripping off his clothes, and before she could think much more, he was in the tub, leaning against the opposite end, the water lapping at the gold chain he wore around his neck and the curious medallion attached to it.
“Ah,” he signed, lying back against the rim. He closed his eyes. His arms rested on the sides, and his knees broke the surface of the water.
Juilene rose and eased herself between his legs, wondering once more at her own boldness. He opened his eyes, and smiled. He gathered her close to him and bent his mouth to hers. The water steamed and swirled around them as the kiss went on and on. “Oh, my sweet.” He caressed her damp hair.
“What is it?” she whispered. “What troubled you so all through dinner?”
He sighed. “Let me wash some of the stink of the road off me, and then I’ll tell you. Everything. I promise.”
The firelight flickered off the rim of the medallion, and Juilene picked it up. A crest was stamped into the gold, a noble crest, much like her father’s. But where her father’s was topped with a pair of crossed swords, this one was topped with a crown. His fingers closed over hers as she raised questioning eyes to his.
“Everything,” he repeated. “I promise.”
She backed away, her mind spinning, trying to remember everything she knew about the heredity markings of the noble houses. There was a strict precedence about the markings, and only the kings of the city-states and their heirs could wear a crown. Could it be, she wondered as she dried herself with the towel and wound her hair in a braid around her head, that Cariad could have stolen the medallion? Could that be why he seemed to behave as though he could never return to his own country?
She climbed into bed and waited.
He bathed with the same economy that marked all his other actions. She heard the splash as he stepped out of the tub, the rustle of the linen as he dried himself. He stepped around the screen, a towel around his waist, the medallion gleaming on his skin.
“May I join you, lady?” he asked with his customary grave courtesy.
She moved over a little, eyeing the medallion suspiciously. He had taken it off last night, she was sure of it, and she wondered why he had taken such pains to hide it from her yesterday, when today he seemed determined that she should notice it. Perhaps I can make this easier for him, she thought. The mattress dipped as he dropped the towel and slid into bed naked beside her.
She brushed the back of his shoulders with the tip of her fingers. “What’s this?” she asked, letting her fingers dance on the edges of the chain.
“It is the medallion of the heir of the royal house of Gravenhage,” he said.
“How did you get it?”
“It was given to m
e at my birth,” he said with that same simplicity. “I am the Prince of Gravenhage.”
Her fingers fell away, and Juilene stared at him. “What did you say?”
“I am—or I will be, in my own time—the Prince of Gravenhage.”
“Will be?”
“I know this story is going to seem quite unbelievable to you, Juilene. I only ask that you let me tell it, as best I can, in my own way as you told yours, and if you want to ask me anything, wait until I am finished.”
She nodded. “All right.”
“In my own country—which is Gravenhage—there is in this time a King named Mark. He is young and not very wise, and he leaves much of the ruling of the country to his young Queen, Mirta, and the various captains of his army, one of whom is a man named Keriaan. In less than a year, Mark will fall ill, and his young Queen will seek the company of this captain, who is mourning the death of his own young wife in childbed.
“Their love will bear fruit—and in less than two years, I will be born—and everyone will think—including Keriaan—that I am Mark’s child—begotten by magic, and the help of a certain thurge named Galanthir, who is Keriaan’s brother. Time will pass, and Keriaan, who will be gravely wounded in a battle on the borders of Gravenhage with a band of robbers, will retire to the country, taking his only daughter with him. And Galanthir will go to Eld, to study with the Guardians of the Sleepers. And no one, except my mother, will know the truth of my birth.” He wet his lips, and looked down, and Juilene, who was trying hard to understand the sense of what he was saying, bit back a question from her lips.
“My mother will be hard set upon by the factions who would bring down the throne of Gravenhage. King Mark is increasingly unable to cope with the demands of his rank. Shortly after my birth, my mother is appointed regent of Gravenhage. But as I approach the year of my majority, the attacks intensify. For my own safety, I am sent to the mountains, and there, I meet Keriaan’s daughter.” His mouth twisted and a shadow crossed his face. “She is very beautiful—there is no one to tell me the truth of my parentage—and so we fall in love. And of that love, she bears my child.
The Knight, the Harp, and the Maiden Page 26
