“A half-aunt, if you want to be technical,” Tyndal pointed out. “But a blood relative. And one in line to inherit your sire’s holdings and estates . . . and you.”
“Me?”
“Of course, my dear!” Marshal Brandan said, warmly. “Your wardship falls to your nearest living relative, upon your sire’s demise. In this case, that would be your Aunt Yesta. It will be her duty to take you in, protect you, finish your education and find you a suitable marriage.”
“A what?”
“It’s her duty,” soothed Rondal. “Well, technically it is the duty of your sire’s liege, but since he is probably dead—“
“Oh, no, he’s very dead,” Tyndal assured him.
“—since he’s very dead, Lady Yesta is now responsible for arranging a marriage worthy of your rank and station.”
“A marriage,” Arsella repeated, dully.
“Indeed. Of course the reparation the Crown pays you for its use of Maramor, in addition to whatever assets the estate may hold in the south, plus the hoard your father left you, all together it should provide a handsome dowry. And there are plenty of poor country knights willing to take a young girl off a busy household’s hands for the right price.”
Arsella looked tormented by the idea. But she also realized that making a scene in front of the military commander of the region would do her no favors. She swallowed grimly and managed a meek smile. “I do look forward to meeting my aunt,” she said, formally. “Thank you, gentlemen, for discovering her. I feel much safer knowing I have kin with whom I might take refuge.”
“Well spoken!” approved Marshal Brendan. “My lady, why don’t you go ready your baggage – we depart at noon, tomorrow, to meet with a patrol headed south near Kiplan. From there it is but a week to Barrowbell, and then downriver by barge to the Coastlands . . . you could be in your family’s bosom within a month, and wed by Yule, Ishi willing!”
“Ishi willing,” agreed Tyndal, as he watched Arsella struggle with the idea. “May she favor you with a giant of a man for a husband who will give you many, many children!”
You are such an asshole, Rondal said to Tyndal, mind-to-mind, as Arsella’s eyes bulged.
She broke your heart, Tyndal pointed out. I don’t mind watching her squirm a little.
Clearly.
After finishing a single cup of wine, as propriety dictated, Lady Arsella excused herself. The boys let a few off-color comments about her nubile status by their new comrades pass. Rondal did not feel that defending the honor of a woman like Arsella would be a credit to his own.
“So where are you being stationed, Commander?” asked the Marshal, moving from wine to spirits.
“Yes, just where are we being stationed? Commander?” asked Tyndal, happily accepting a cup.
“Master Minalan has had Commander Terleman pull us from the front for a mission,” Rondal reported. “A secret mission. I have no idea what, just that we’re supposed to meet up with Sir Festaran at Fillisby with a caravan, proceed south overland to some place in the lower Riverlands, and then return to Sevendor.”
“A secret mission,” repeated Tyndal. “In the Riverlands? With Sir Fes?”
“He’s a knight mage, of sorts,” explained Rondal to Brandon and Varigon. “A sport, not a true mage. But he has a few talents that are useful, and he is well-trained. A good, solid fellow. What he has to do with the task, I know not, but then the Spellmonger keeps secrets like barons keep mistresses.”
“Your master has quite a reputation in many matters,” agreed Marshal Brandon. “I’ve yet to meet the man, yet by all accounts all hope for victory in this war lies upon his shoulders. I’ve seen what you folk,” he said, indicating the three magi, “can do on the battlefield – you won’t hear of me charging a dragon – but is he up to the task? Can he find a way to slay the Goblin King?”
Rondal looked at Tyndal, and while he hoped some soothing and reassuring words would flow from him, mind-to-mind, his fellow was just as challenged to answer the question as he.
“If he is not, my lord Marshal,” Rondal finally said, “then no other man is better suited. And it will not be because he did not try everything in his power. Our master is committed to the cause of Sharuel’s destruction. And we are committed to aiding him, however we may,” he answered.
“Well spoken,” murmured Varigon, taking a third sip of liquor.
“Indeed,” agreed Brandon. “Then let us drink to the health of the Spellmonger, before we retire, and pray the gods that he has the stones to see this through.”
Tyndal went to bed shortly thereafter, citing exhaustion. Rondal found he had trouble sleeping, and after seeing Varigon and Brandon to proper quarters, instead of finding his own bed he found himself walking through the manor’s courtyard, going in no particular direction.
“Sir Rondal,” came a quiet, insistent – and female – voice from the shadows. “I had hoped to see you here before you slept.”
“Arsella,” he answered, invoking magesight to find her in the darkness. “What do you want to speak with me about?”
“What do I want to speak with you about? You spared my life and gave me station today . . . you don’t feel that merits a word or two?”
“Mayhap,” conceded Rondal, uncomfortably. “I didn’t do it for you, really. It was just . . . it was just the best thing for everyone.”
“You didn’t have to do it at all,” Arsella said, taking his arm.
“I’m not certain I did you any favors,” he warned. “I wasn’t joking about your aunt. She has six daughters and four sons. She’s not going to like a spare fosterling around. She’s going to want to marry you off quickly.”
“That is my battle to fight,” she shrugged. “I could have been dead by nightfall. If the price of that is some fat, hairy old knight heaving his pasty body on top of mine every night for the next twenty years, then it is not too dear a price to pay.”
“So you say now,” chuckled Rondal. “You have yet to meet the man.”
“Goddess willing, he’s handsome, rich, and kind,” she sighed. “But if not . . . well, I know how to use an arbalest,” she reminded him. “Accidents happen . . .”
Rondal suppressed a shudder at how casually she said it – he told himself she was joking, but he wasn’t quite convinced. “So you really aren’t that upset about it?”
She shrugged. “I lost Maramor, but it wasn’t ever really mine, save for a few weeks when no one else was around. I gained a name and a title. And wealth, even, after a fashion. My . . . others in my family were not as lucky.”
“But you could have had freedom,” Rondal pointed out.
“Freedom? To what, starve?” she snorted. “Do you have any idea what I would have to do to survive in the southlands?”
“Well, no,” Rondal admitted.
“Neither do I, but I can’t imagine it would be pleasant. Just how many young girls of common blood from northern Gilmora are begging in the streets of Barrowbell? Or worse? How many are on the road, fleeing for their lives with only what they have on their backs? You gave me a chance, Rondal. Not a good one, but a chance. As hard as the consequences might be to bear, you gave me a chance at a life. Maybe even a good life.”
Rondal waved at the sentry beginning his patrol of the grounds as he walked by – his last night as commander here, he realized. Arsella smiled. “In a way, I’m glad things worked out this way. I . . . I know you probably don’t think much of me, but I do admire you very much, Rondal. You have my respect, even if I could not give you my heart.”
“Don’t—”
“I wanted to,” she interrupted. “I did, I swear to Ishi, I did. I wanted to be rescued by a handsome knight and taken away, or have Maramor restored to me by him. And then you showed up, the answer to my prayer . . . and for a while, I almost loved you. I really wanted to. But . . .”
“But then Tyndal showed up,” Rondal said, sourly.
“It was more than that,” Arsella insisted. “I was terrified you’d find ou
t my secret and have me thrown out of the gate. Or worse. I feared you were going to be replaced, and then when he and his men showed up, I thought you had been.”
“So you never had real feelings for me,” Rondal said, bitterly.
“I had great feelings for you,” corrected Arsella. “But I had to do what I felt was best for me. That wasn’t you. Or at least that’s what my heart told me.”
“And now your heart is leading you to some smelly, hairy, fat old country knight who gets to rut with you,” Rondal said, sourly. “How is that better than . . . than me?”
“It’s not,” laughed Arsella. “But if that is to be my fate . . . will you at least grant me a few sordid memories to carry with me into my marriage bed?” she asked, pulling him to her, tightly.
He glanced around, but they were alone, save for the guards. “I thought you didn’t love me?”
“I do not,” she agreed. “But I am not ungrateful. And you have proven a far fairer friend than I deserve. While you may not move my heart, Sir Rondal, I cannot fault you as a gentleman of great honor. Honor that should be rewarded by a noble lady.”
“From what I understand, high-born women are not wont to share their favors so lightly,” he murmured into her ear as they walked through the autumn mist.
“Lucky for you, I wasn’t high-born,” she said, pulling him into an embrace. “And don’t think I do share my favors lightly. You are the worthiest knight I have ever met, my lord, and you honored me with your attention. I was . . . I was a fool to dismiss it so lightly.” She kissed him.
He almost asked how she felt about him now – but his lips were busy and in truth he feared the answer. He knew she was not for him – as much as he liked her, as much as she aroused his ardor, she had failed to gain and keep his respect. The woman he gave his heart to would have to be worthy, far worthier than Arsella.
But that did not mean Arsella was broken. She just wasn’t for him.
At least, not after tonight.
He broke the kiss. “It occurs to me that no one has inspected the secluded cotton shed at the far end of the manor for goblins in the last day or so. I would be remiss in my duty if I allowed an infiltrator to escape notice by hiding there. Would milady wish to go with me to investigate? I promise to protect you.”
Lady Arsella of Maramor smiled contentedly and took his arm. “Sir Rondal, I am ever at your service.”
Epilogue
Taragwen Domain, Winter
Year II Of King Rard’s Reign
My heart sank when I saw the front gate of the castle.
Well, “castle” might be too generous, it was a fortified tower and a small, hardened shell keep, but this far up in the mountains it was perfectly adequate. The castle wasn’t the problem. The banner that hung from the top of the gatehouse was crude, an old undyed wool blanket painted with a design I couldn’t quite make out. There was a mage’s star, and a shield, and some kind of animal, but the whole thing was off-center, poorly done, and indistinct at best.
It had my apprentices’ touch all over it.
“It occurs to me, Sire,” Sire Cei said, in an almost amused voice, “that perhaps we were not specific enough in our instructions in this matter.”
“It didn’t seem like a job that required a lot of detailed thought,” I growled. There was someone on the battlement of the gatehouse. I used magesight to call the image closer. Sir Festaran, his helmet looking more like stovepipe than armor. He had a big goofy grin splitting his face. I relaxed a touch – Sir Fes has a good head on his shoulders, and he’s as loyal as they come, so if he wasn’t upset, it couldn’t be all bad.
From his perspective. From mine . . .
“It was a simple enough commission,” I muttered as the horses walked up the incline toward the gatehouse. “Stop by and see if poachers were still mining the snowstone here on their way back to Sevendor. But they were to deliver our guest as quickly and expediently as possible.”
“Perhaps they merely misinterpreted the command, Sire,” Cei soothed.
“This is one hell of a misinterpretation,” I said. “Dara, for future reference, if you don’t understand an order I give you, please ask for clarification to avoid these sorts of . . . misinterpretations.”
My youngest apprentice looked amused, which was better than anxious, I suppose.
“Master, I don’t think I would be stupid enough to screw up an order this badly,” she smirked. “To do that, I believe I would have to change my gender.”
“I cannot argue that point,” I conceded. “And I appreciate your good sense more than you know. And after I speak to those three . . . gentlemen, I predict I’ll appreciate it all the more.”
“Hail, Spellmonger!” called Festaran from the battlement, waving his gauntlet at us in the cold air. “Welcome to Estasi Hall.”
I did a double-take. “Estasi Hall? This is Taragwen Hall.” The name was familiar . . . and it didn’t belong to this place. It belonged to . . . oh.
Oh. Now I had a glimmer of why my instructions had been “misinterpreted”. We rode under that homemade banner and into the yard, the chill winter breeze picking up at twilight. Sir Festaran came down the stairs from the battlement, his grin even wider.
“And who may I ask rules Estasi Hall, Sir Festaran?” Sire Cei asked as he got down from his horse. A churl had scurried out and held the heads of all four of our mounts for us. He wore no livery, but he seemed properly cowed by us.
“Why, that would be the Steward of the Order, Sire Minalan,” the young knight mage said as he descended the ladder to greet us. “All will be made clear in time. If you gentlefolk would accompany me into the hall, explanations will sound better with fire and cup.”
I nodded warily, and then spotted Joppo the Root lounging by the kitchen shed, eating an ear of corn. If Joppo wasn’t upset, that was telling. The peasant was not one to linger near danger or disaster. That, more than Festaran’s smiling face, made me relax a bit. Whatever my two young idiots had done, it presented no immediate danger.
“Lead on, Sir Festaran,” I nodded. Whatever it was he was concealing, he seemed rather pleased with himself.
He took us on into keep’s small great hall, where a fire was roaring on the over-sized hearth at the far end. Magelights floated above the three tables in the room, but most were concentrated over the table nearest the fire where my two apprentices were sitting. In comfort - though Tyndal’s right arm was in a sling, and Rondal sported a fresh bandage over his left eye. They were smoking and drinking at table like they were two gentlemen taking their ease at an inn.
Both rose when we entered, and bowed from the shoulders in unison until we had arrived near them and the fire.
“May I present Sire Minalan the Spellmonger of Sevendor,” Sir Festaran announced, ”Sire Cei of Cargwenyn, the Dragonslayer; Lady Lenodara of Westwood, the Hawkmaid, and Lady Ithalia of . . . the Alka Alon!” He stumbled over that last bit, presumably because he was unfamiliar of her exact title – for that matter, so was I – but more likely because Ithalia’s presence just has that effect on men. Dara snorted in a most unladylike way at the young knight’s difficulty.
Tyndal was the first to speak. He stood up from his bow a full two inches taller than I remembered him being. Some of that could be accounted for the new riding boots he wore, but not all. Not even most. His shoulders were broader under his mantle than I remembered, too, and his face had lost all but a hint of that boyish sharpness in the last year. And grown some fuzz.
“My lords, my ladies, we bid you welcome to our humble hall.”
“ ‘Our’ humble hall?” Sire Cei asked in my stead. My sphere hovered overhead among the magelights and bobbled at my growing frustration. “To my knowledge, gentlemen, Taragwen domain is ruled by Sir Pangine, tenant-in-chief to the Lord of Sashtalia. In fact, I was here in your company not two seasons ago and enjoyed a cup with the man myself.”
“Your information is no longer current, I’m afraid, Sire Cei,” grinned Rondal impishly. “Th
ere has been a change in ownership.”
“And just how did this change occur?” I asked, my teeth clenched. “And to whom does the honor of ‘sire’ of this domain now belong?”
“Ah, as to that,” Rondal said, with enough grace to sound a little guilty, “you may find the tale humorous, Master. And as to the new lord, that would fall to the Chief of the Order.”
“What order?”
“It would be improper to begin at the ending,” Sir Rondal said. “It might be better if we told you what happened from the beginning. And . . . perhaps a glass is in order,” he said, looking even more guilty.
“Yes, by all means, let us tell you the tale over a glass of wine,” Tyndal encouraged, waving at the table where glasses and bottle were waiting.
I took a seat, but could not tear my eyes from the two truants as my senior apprentice poured. “If I recall correctly, I asked you to return to Taragwen on the way back from your mission to quietly check on the snowstone smuggling here,” I reminded them. “Assuming you and your charge had safely eluded your pursuers, I had thought that an order so simply delivered could be as simply carried out.”
“One would think, Master,” agreed Rondal.
“We were overtaken by events,” Tyndal sighed.
“Things were . . . more complicated than we had assumed, Magelord,” Sir Festaran said, apologetically.
“So complicated,” I said, doing my best not to lose my temper, “that you figured the best answer to the situation was to take it upon yourselves to conquer the domain and potentially start a war between Sevendor and Sashtalia?” I asked, letting more and more anger sound in my voice.
The three young knights looked at each other. For all I know, there was some mind-to-mind communication going on. But they turned to me shaking their heads in unison.
“Yes, Magelord,” Sir Festaran said, with some hesitation.
“That is exactly what happened,” agreed Tyndal, confidently.
I picked up the wine cup and sipped, not tasting the vintage at all. “I did not ride for two days to take a few long tales by the fire,” I said, darkly. “As succinctly as you can, describe to me the actions that led to this . . . situation.”
Knights Magi (Book 4) Page 57
