“I know you look forward to the day, but you can’t mean to offer up Kirah,” he said, tapping the desk with the quill. “Even if she weren’t too young, her marriage would mean that I’d pay a dowry, not receive one. That goes for Honora, too.” Scratching his temple, he thought for a moment more. “Bram is also too young. Even Berwick, desperate as he is for a noble connection, would not promise Ingard for a marriage to one so much younger than she.”
“Ingrid,” Rietta corrected. “You’re right. Bram is out of the question. He’s going to become a Knight of the Rose, like my father, and his father before him, and—”
“Yes, I know, like all male Cuissets, back to Vinus Solamnus,” interrupted Cormac in an unflattering imitation of Rietta’s own haughty voice. “A bunch of pansy-assed, overdressed, magic-wielding charlatans.”
If Rietta had had any respect for Cormac, his words might have angered her. They didn’t. “You’re such a peasant, Cormac. But that’s an old argument I don’t wish to pursue now.” She straightened her skirts needlessly. “You’ve forgotten Guerrand.”
Cormac threw his head back and laughed at the absurd suggestion. “Don’t you remember? We eliminated Guerrand as a possibility before we offered up Quinn. The reason hasn’t changed. He’s a wastrel.”
Rietta leaned over the desk toward her husband, her expression intent. “It’s true the reason hasn’t changed, but the circumstances have. Now he’s the only son available. You said yourself that Berwick is desperate. You simply have to persuade him that Guerrand has changed.” Rietta snickered unkindly. “That tradesman hasn’t many options with a daughter like his.”
“What if Guerrand doesn’t agree?”
Rietta sighed with exasperation. “You’ll have to help him see that he hasn’t many—any—options. Threaten to cut him off. He hasn’t any means of support besides you, has he? He hasn’t completed his training as a cavalier, so he’s not likely to run off and join a crusade. Appeal to his sense of DiThon family loyalty. Make him see that he’d be doing it for family and castle—and to make himself more comfortable.”
Rietta’s words sounded surprisingly reasonable to Cormac, yet he doubted the comfort argument would gain him ground with his indolent half brother. Guerrand seemed unconcerned about material things. Cormac had never been able to use that as leverage to get Guerrand to do anything he didn’t already want to do.
“For Kiri-Jolith’s sake, Cormac, you’re the lord and master here!” Rietta cut into his musings. “Don’t ask him, just tell him he has to do it. Guerrand wanted to become a mage, not a cavalier. Yet you forced him to train as the latter, and he seems to have forgotten the former.”
Secretly, Cormac did not consider that subject a victory, since Guerrand was taking the longest time in history to advance from squire to knight.
“If you’re as wise as I think,” said Rietta slickly, nearly choking on the words, “you’ll insist that the marriage take place in a fortnight, on the same day you’d set aside for Quinn and Ingrid.”
Cormac looked scandalized. “Without a proper mourning period? Such a rush will make the whole thing look like—well, exactly like what it is, a marriage of political convenience.”
Rietta laughed. “Don’t fool yourself that it’s ever appeared to be anything else. No one is more aware of propriety than I,” she said. “Yet, in this case, what is proper is less important than that we not give Guerrand time to change his mind or flee.”
A small sound from near the fireplace punctuated Rietta’s comment. “What was that?” she asked, looking toward the section of wall from which the noise had come.
Cormac dismissed it with a toss of his head. “Rodents. I hear them all the time in here. Likely they have thousands of hidey-holes in this old castle.”
“I’ll have the chamberlain put out traps.” A small sigh escaped Rietta’s patrician nostrils. “I fear I’ve been gone too long for propriety and must return to the great hall. Concerning Guerrand, you must do as you think best, my husband.”
Rietta wore a tight-lipped, triumphant smile as she watched her husband’s port-fogged mind ponder her words. She knew he would do it, had already decided to, but would not admit it to her so readily. She knew all too well how to persuade her husband to do what she wanted. She had but to provide and plant the seed. Cormac himself, with the aid of port as fertilizer and desperation as sunshine, would make the notion grow.
As she slipped from the room and donned her well-rehearsed expression of grief, Rietta only hoped Cormac would do it soon, before Berwick had time to pursue other avenues.
* * * * *
Hurry, hurry, hurry! Kirah screamed inwardly, as if willing her feet to move faster in the cramped confines of the crawl space outside Cormac’s study. Kirah knew as Rietta did that Cormac would do as his wife suggested. The young girl had gasped aloud when she’d realized it. Thank Habbakuk they’d attributed the sound to rats. She’d started crawling when Cormac headed with purpose toward the door of his study. She knew with certainty that he was not en route to the privy.
This is a thousand times worse than I’d feared! Kirah’s fevered brain cried. I’d hoped he’d be safe because he was still unsuitable. Grieving, guileless Guerrand wouldn’t even suspect why he was being summoned to Cormac’s study again until it was too late to escape.
Scrappy Kirah had known from the moment she’d heard of Quinn’s death that it was only a matter of time before Cormac and Rietta cooked up some other plot to regain Stonecliff. That was why, even more than her overwhelming grief, she’d disappeared. She’d spent as much of the last three days as possible in the tunnel outside Cormac’s study, listening, leaving only to filch food from the kitchen.
Kirah had hoped that Berwick would produce an unheard-of son to marry to Honora. She knew now that she’d only fooled herself, because it was what she wanted to think. Besides, she hadn’t thought about Cormac having to pay a dowry.
It had been a most informative, if uncomfortable, couple of days. Cormac had allowed the DiThon finances to decline further than he’d led anyone to believe. A lot further. The normal costs of running a castle were high enough, but Cormac’s taste for fine wines and brandies, and the wedding preparations, had stretched the household budget even more. Only yesterday, Kirah had heard Cormac in a dreadful argument with the chamberlain over the cost of Quinn’s funeral.
Scrambling on her hands and knees around a turn, still in the same clothes she’d been wearing when the news of Quinn’s death arrived, Kirah caught her shift on a sharp rock. Cursing, she gave the loose-fitting dress a yank, heard it tear free, and she was off again. Three days in the tunnels had left her feeling grubbier than even she found comfortable. Her nails were torn, the cuticles bloodied by scraping along the stone tunnels. She could scarcely imagine what she must look like with wisps of cobwebs poking from her greasy mop of hair and her smudged face. A fright doll came to mind. She didn’t care.
Right now, Kirah cared only about reaching the viewing room before Cormac, or his messenger, could get there. The problem was, no direct route led through the network of tunnels within the castle. The stairway outside Cormac’s study dropped almost directly into the foyer near the great hall, but the tunnels wound around the outside walls before exiting beneath the main staircase.
Reviewing the maze in her mind, Kirah decided to take a chance. She could cut the time significantly if she exited in the dining room, crossed that room in the open—even though there was a chance she might be spotted—then entered a second passage that led to the great hall.
Scrambling quickly down the narrow chimney that passed between floors, Kirah planned what she would do when she got to the great hall. First, she’d pull Guerrand into the tunnel, kicking and screaming if necessary. She knew he hated the small, spider-filled tunnels. Kirah didn’t care about that now, either. She had to get him out of that death room.
After that she resolved to tell him what she’d overheard. It would not be difficult to persuade him to run away with her
to Gwynned, like he’d always wanted to. Guerrand could finally study his magic, and she would, well, she’d do something! Learn to pick pockets, if I have to, Kirah thought. The young woman had a talent for it, and a certain amount of skill at thievery already. Possessions had been disappearing from the rooms of visitors to Castle DiThon for years. Thus far, it had only been a bored girl’s game, but she felt certain it could easily become a profession.
The more Kirah thought about it, the more she liked the idea. Guerrand could even use his magic to help her pilfer the biggest purses. She and Guerrand would become runaways like the characters in her favorite tales. Guerrand himself had sent her off to sleep countless times with bedtime stories about notorious mountebanks and swindlers and rogues, traveling adventurers who lived by their wits and magical skills rather than force of arms. Even honest, moral Guerrand couldn’t help but see that it was their fate.
She knew the highest hurdle to overcome would be Guerrand’s ever-ready sense of guilt. He would definitely feel guilty about running away. Kirah wouldn’t. She had no time for such a useless emotion. Guilt was an excuse used by people who were afraid to do what they wanted. She’d learned the hard way that if you didn’t grab what you wanted, no one was likely to give it to you. She’d told Guerrand that before, and she’d tell him again and again until he finally understood it.
Kirah came to a section of tunnel that was taller than average, though still narrow. She raised up from her crablike position and took off at a shambling run, trying to gain time. But then she came to a skidding stop. Abruptly, as she’d expected, the tunnel took a sharp left around a chimney. Ten more steps and she’d have to leave the tunnel through an air grate between the legs of a ponderous sideboard and take the chance of crossing the formal dining room. With any luck there would be only servants present, preparing the hall for the funeral feast later that day.
Castle DiThon’s servants had witnessed her comings and goings for years and never spoken of it beyond the kitchen, far preferring the scrappy little miss to their lord. They would not have lied directly for her—punishment for that would be swift and brutal for the servant’s entire family. But Cormac never thought to ask them. He considered the servants to be as mute and mindless as mice, further evidence of Cormac’s unsuitability to run a castle. As if she needed proof. Kirah scoffed, amused that she knew more about what went on in the keep than did her brother, Rietta, or their doddering old chamberlain.
Narrow, flickering swatches of torchlight danced across the tunnel before her. Kneeling within the light, Kirah wrapped her thin, pale fingers around the bars of the grate and pushed gently. Feeling the weight of the heavy bars as they came loose from their resting place, she struggled the grate to the side, to lean against a leg of the sideboard. Doubled up into a ball, Kirah thrust her head through the very narrow opening between two ornately carved legs. She hated to take the time to replace the grate, but she couldn’t bear to leave a trail.
Kirah gritted her teeth as she swung the heavy iron vent back into place. Swiveling around on the ball of one foot, she peered out from beneath the sideboard. No one looked to be about. The servants must be between deliveries of platters, she thought. Kirah sighed heavily at the scent of food already placed above her for the feast. Her stomach reminded her painfully that she’d eaten too little for several days.
Don’t think, just run fast, Kirah told herself. Sighting her goal—another vent—across the room, she made a mad dash through the row of banquet tables, not bothering to keep low or quiet. If anyone had seen the darting figure with tangled hair and torn shift, they would have sworn the castle had a wraith in residence.
Kirah was in the tunnel and replacing the second grate when she heard a gasp and a flurry of activity in the dining room, but she couldn’t wait to listen. She had to cross the length of two more rooms within the keep before she reached the great hall.
She scrambled through the long, straight length of tunnel that paralleled the east wall of the great room. Rounding the last left turn, she could see the grate ahead, aware that the air grew hotter with each step. This particular tunnel abutted the enormous fireplace that provided heat for the hall. The walls of carved stone block were too hot to touch, and she was careful to keep from bumping them.
Still, Kirah was sweating like a blacksmith when she made it to the final grate. She squinted through the narrow slits. Set before the fire, Quinn’s ornate bier dominated her limited view. Placing the dead near a fire was a local custom—a superstition, really—meant to keep the beloved’s soul warm on the long journey to the afterlife. It had never seemed a wise custom to the young girl. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. The hot, still air was heavy with the smell of death that no amount of fragrant herbs could disguise. In vain, she tried to push the scent from her nostrils.
Squinting into the brighter light of the torches, she at last spotted Guerrand in the crowd. He stood on the far right side of Quinn. His back was to her, his shoulders slumped with fatigue. Her heart leaped in her chest. He was still there. He was alone.
“Guerrand!” she hissed through the bars. No response. “Guerrand!” she called more loudly. Still no sign that he’d heard her over the roar of the fire or the clamor of his own thoughts. She decided to risk it all.
“Rand!” she hollered aloud, as if calling to him at the distant stables. She saw him jump. His head snapped around, looking for the familiar face that went with that voice. She bellowed again. Guerrand’s gaze closed on the sound, eyes searching the shadows to the right of the fireplace.
“Kirah?” He easily recognized her voice, though he still couldn’t locate her. “Where are you?”
“Down here!” she cried. “Behind the grate, next to the fireplace!”
His eyes finally located the outline of the grate. “What are you doing in there? I’ve been worried about you. Why don’t you just come out? You should, you know, for Quinn—”
“Forget all that!” she hissed. “Right now, you’ve got to get out of that room! Cormac is coming, and he’s going to tell you—”
“Master Guerrand?”
Kirah’s heart missed two beats at the sound of the servant’s voice. “Don’t listen to him, Rand! There’s still time! Get into the tunnel with me!”
But Guerrand didn’t know he had reason to fear the servant. Frowning down at his sister’s hysterical voice, he turned about. “What is it, Pytr?”
“Lord DiThon requests your immediate presence in his study.”
Guerrand looked puzzled. “Now? During the viewing?” He shook his dark head. “Please tell my brother I’ll join him shortly, when the viewing is over and the feasting has begun.”
To Guerrand’s surprise, Cormac’s servant placed a firm hand on his arm. “My instructions were to bring you to him directly.” The grip tightened.
“Let go of me, Pytr,” said Guerrand, his voice as tight as the fingers on his arm. He tried to shake them off, but to no avail.
“I told you, Rand!” hissed Kirah, mindless of the servant’s ears. “Now, come on!”
Confused, Guerrand was not of a temperament to simply break free and dash into the tunnel as the impetuous Kirah would have him do. Besides, he didn’t want to leave Quinn’s side. “Not now, Kirah,” he said sharply, dashing his sister’s last hope.
Guerrand’s anger, however, was directed at the impudent servant. “I’m warning you, Pytr,” he said, his voice low and threatening, “release my arm. Even Cormac cannot wish to cause a scene just to ensure my obedience to his commands.”
“I have my orders, sir.”
Guerrand’s eyes narrowed with fury. Angry enough to throw a punch, he made to tear his arm away. Then he caught sight of two more burly servants, eyes on him as they moved through the crowd to reinforce Pytr. Guerrand could not imagine what would cause Cormac to take such measures, but he held himself still against Pytr’s grip, turning his eyes to Quinn’s closed ones. Do I do you more dishonor by leaving you reluctantly or brawling before your bier? It did
not take Guerrand long to decide that the solemnity of the occasion could not be shattered. He silently promised Quinn’s still form that he would return as soon as possible.
“I’ll go now, Pytr, but you’ll regret your tactics.” Guerrand would not be escorted like a damned prisoner. He gave one last vicious shake of his arm. Pytr’s hand flew free. Guerrand settled his shoulders and set off for the door ahead of the unrepentant servant.
Behind the grate, Kirah gave a silent cry of anguish as she sank her face into her filthy hands. She had failed Guerrand. The young girl who had already given over so many to death knew in her bones that she was witnessing the loss of her second brother in three days.
Seated in a merlon, his back against a crenel, Guerrand stared blankly at the book propped against his bent knees. “So, what do you think I should do, Zagarus?” he asked his companion on the southern ramparts of Castle DiThon. The view, looking out over the strait of Ergoth, was breathtaking, but today Guerrand scarcely saw the sea.
You’re asking me? I’m a sea gull, remember?
The bird’s squawk echoed directly inside Guerrand’s head. He looked up from the book. “Who else can I ask? Kirah has told me what she thinks.” He sighed. He’d had one conversation with his sister since the viewing. They’d disagreed about running away, and Kirah hadn’t spoken to him since. “Besides, Zagarus, you’re not an ordinary sea gull.”
You don’t have to tell me that! snapped the gull. I’m a hooded, black-backed Ergothian sea gull, the largest, most strikingly beautiful of all seabirds.
Guerrand’s lids drooped slowly at the gull’s modest assessment. Zagarus was impressive to look at. His head was brown-black in a diagonal from the base of his small skull to his throat. His entire underside, save for his yellow legs, was snow-white. Edged with a mere sliver of white, his wings and back were the purest black. “I meant that you’re my familiar.”
Zagarus screeched aloud, a harsh, deep “kyeow.” In the silent language of familiars, he said, How well I know my servitude.
Night of the Eye Page 4
