Morris frowned. What was this distraction all about? “Who are you?” the knight demanded. “I sent the chamberlain for the mistress of the castle.”
“Lady DiThon is, ahem, indisposed,” said the man. “I represent the family’s concerns.”
Morris spurred his mount slightly, just enough to make it prance in place. “Any missive you have for Master Berwick you may deliver to me. I am Sir Morris Whetfeld, an honorable Knight of the Rose and Berwick’s son-in-law, as well as commander of this host. Speak your message, quickly.”
The figure on the wall studied Morris for a moment, then replied. “I have something here of yours.” Crash! “Tell your monkeys to stop their hammering, and I will show you something I’m certain you’ll find of particular interest.”
“There’ll be much to pay if this is just some delaying tactic,” warned Sir Morris. At length he extended his left arm, palm side down, and lowered it, whereupon the battering ram crew dropped the tree trunk. This fellow on the wall seemed entirely too cocky for someone in his position, Morris thought, and he did not like cocky young men. He had seen his fill of those among the knights back in Solamnia. He would hear out the chap’s message, but at the first hint of stalling, the attack would resume. Morris could not let this arrogant young man forget who held the upper hand.
The speaker reached behind the adjacent merlon and drew out a young woman with dark hair and downcast eyes. Even at this distance, she was remarkably familiar to Morris. He blinked in disbelief.
“Ingrid?” Morris stood in his stirrups now, blood pounding angrily in his ears as his eyes searched the face of his new wife. “How is this possible?”
“Did you think us so provincial that we’d remain unaware of your plot?” snorted the man who stood next to the woman on the battlements. “You posted notices over the entire continent of Ansalon! It was not a difficult thing after your departure to snatch your comely wife from the manor house in Hillfort. You left it shamefully underprotected.” The man stroked Ingrid’s cheek. “Your tender wife has learned many an interesting thing during the trip here with ruffians and miscreants, haven’t you, my dear?” With a shudder, Lady Ingrid Berwick Whetfeld drew away from the man.
Sir Morris cursed himself for his carelessness. “This is an outrage!” he shrilled. “Preying upon innocent women in time of war is cowardly and dishonorable! If so much as a hair on her head is harmed, I shall topple this castle stone from stone and bury you all inside.”
The speaker on the wall seemed more amused than threatened by Morris’s histrionics. He hollered in reply, “I would keep a civil attitude, Solamnic. You really can’t afford to offend me right now.”
Sir Morris snarled at the man, his eyes on the woman. She said nothing. “Wife, don’t you know me? What have these base villains done to you? Why don’t you speak?”
“I am afraid, my husband,” she whimpered. “Please just do as they ask, so that we may be together again.”
“If you hurt her—” threatened Sir Morris again, shaking his mailed fist in impotent rage.
“She’s not been harmed,” the man interrupted, “and she won’t be, provided you stop this siege nonsense.”
Morris was ruffling up for a further barrage of insults and threats when he felt a restraining hand on his shoulder. He looked back to see the lined face of Anton Berwick, his father-in-law, peering intently up toward the wall. The merchant had insisted upon joining the expedition, but Morris had managed to persuade him to maintain a safe distance in the rear. The unexpected sight of his daughter on the parapet had obviously drawn Berwick forward. The merchant shook his head silently now, and the knight dropped reluctantly back into his saddle.
“My dear Ingrid, are you all right?” Though he tried to mask it, the old man’s concern for his daughter was clear in his strong voice. He looked stiff and awkward in his new armor, and his considerable bulk seemed to overfill his poor horse’s saddle.
“I’m fine, Father,” replied the woman faintly, brushing a strand of windblown hair from her face. “They have treated me well enough. This one,” she said with a glance to the man next to her, “has been quite gallant, really.”
“Gallant? I hardly think so,” snorted the knight, but a strong look from Berwick silenced him.
The knight moved close to his father-in-law. “Father, how can we trust these villains? They are kidnappers and deceivers, completely without honor. If we redouble our efforts with the ram, their gate will crumble very soon. Then we shall have Ingrid back, and revenge for this outrage.”
But Morris could see the reply in Berwick’s eyes even before any words were spoken. “If they truly are dishonorable deceivers, as you say, then we cannot risk continuing the attack. Of course the gate would fall, but revenge is all we would claim inside, and we would both lose Ingrid. I cannot allow that.”
“But,” pressed the knight, suddenly struck with a thought, “how do we know that is really Ingrid? This could be an elaborate trick of magic.”
Berwick’s jowls shook. “You don’t know Cormac DiThon. However villainous he might be, he would never suffer the use of magic within his walls.”
Sir Morris would not be dismissed so lightly. “You must admit, then, that at this distance, any young woman of a similar size with dark hair might pass for our Ingrid.”
Berwick thought for a moment, then addressed the castle again. “Young man, you are a goodly distance removed from my tired old eyes. How can I be certain that the woman standing with you there truly is my daughter, Ingrid?”
The man seemed prepared for the possibility of such a question. He leaned in close to the merchant’s daughter, as if in whispered conversation. After several moments, they separated and he replied, “This simple demonstration ought to be sufficient to persuade you.”
In a faint but clear voice, Ingrid said, “It is me, Morris.” She then recited a simple rhyme:
My hand do hold, my love, my light,
My hand do hold, my dearest treasure;
Your love I clasp inside so tight,
As dear to me as Oath and Measure.
It was a poem Morris had written for Ingrid during their brief courtship, and they alone knew of it. A deep, crimson flush colored Sir Morris’s face. That was enough to tell Anton Berwick the poem was authentic.
The rotund merchant turned back to the castle. “What do you want from us?”
“I already told you,” the man replied. “Stop all this nonsense immediately and return to Hillfort.”
Morris raised his armored fist into the air, pointing at the man. “We will leave when Ingrid is returned to us!”
The kidnapper snorted loudly. “Do you think I just fell off the turnip wagon? If I hand her over now, you’ll simply resume your attack.”
“I give you my solemn word as a Knight of the Rose that we will not,” vowed Sir Morris.
“The word of a knight means naught to me,” said the man. “I believe only that which I can see with my own eyes. Your lady wife will remain here for two days. That should give you time to get halfway to Hillfort. At that point we will return her the same way we fetched her. I assure you, Ingrid will be there waiting, as you left her, when you arrive.
“And don’t even think about doubling back,” the kidnapper added menacingly. “It should be pretty clear to you by now that we are aware of your every move.”
There was silence for several moments, as all parties considered the transaction. Then Sir Morris spoke again. “And what of the land you stole from us, with plans to extort our ships with tolls? That injustice cannot be allowed to stand. Especially now, considering what you have done to our Ingrid.”
“The land? Oh, yes, that,” the man muttered. “Uh, have your representatives contact ours concerning negotiations for the land.” With that, he turned quickly to leave.
Baffled, Sir Morris, gloved hands on the tassets covering his hips, glanced up. “Are you not Cormac DiThon’s representative?”
“I think I made that clear,” said
the man.
Sir Morris bristled. “Then we will discuss possession of Stonecliff now, or we will not leave.”
The kidnapper rolled his eyes in vexation. “All right, then. If ownership of that small piece of land is to forever be a cause for war between us, we will retire from occupying it.”
“And that is acceptable to Lord DiThon?” asked Berwick, astonished.
“I said so, didn’t I?”
Both Sir Morris and Anton Berwick eyed the snappish representative on the wall one last, lingering time. “It is done, and we will leave in peace,” Berwick announced at length. His glance turned once more on his daughter before he rode awkwardly away through the ranks of disappointed knights and mercenaries who would see no fighting today.
Sir Morris Whetfeld also spun about, and his army followed him. “Have courage, my love,” he called to Ingrid with a last longing look over his shoulder at the woman on the wall. “Soon we will be together again.”
Ingrid waved a handkerchief at the retreating army.
* * * * *
“We did it!” squealed Kirah, crouching behind the protection of the merlon as the army noisily departed across the heath. “Gods, can you believe he actually said that to me?” She wiggled her newly bent front teeth and tugged at the elaborate frock with disdain. “Hurry up and make me look like myself again,” she pleaded.
Lyim dispelled the disguise with a wave of his hand. Kirah stood before him once more in her dirty yellow frock and hair.
“You have no idea how difficult it is to speak around those teeth!” she laughed. “Fooling the Berwicks was easy by comparison.”
“Speak for yourself,” muttered Lyim, rubbing his temples. He was unused to casting so many spells at once, not to mention the pressure of negotiating peace. Still and all, this good deed had been easy enough to accomplish.
He’d not admit it to Kirah, but he’d expected more of a fight from the Berwicks. All it took to convince them was a poem he’d plucked from the befuddled knight’s memory. “We were fortunate you were close enough in size to Ingrid Berwick and remembered her features in enough detail for me to superimpose them on you.”
“Who could forget those teeth?” Kirah chortled once more. “I’ll tell you who’s really lucky—Guerrand, for not marrying into that family!” Kirah almost felt like herself again. The tension she’d held in her shoulders since Lyim had suggested the ruse eased away.
Lyim saw it. “Don’t get too relaxed, Kirah. There’s much work to be done yet.”
“Like what?”
“Like releasing your sister-in-law, Rietta, from the binding spell that kept her out of sight while we addressed the knights.”
“Must we?” Kirah pouted, then rolled her eyes. “Oh, I suppose you’re right. Someone will surely notice that she hasn’t issued a shrewish order for a least an hour.”
Lyim laughed, then grew serious. “We also must send a missive immediately to Cormac at Stonecliff, apprising him of the attack, before Berwick finds out he’s been duped and returns.”
Remembering Lyim’s promise, Kirah clapped a hand over her mouth. “What’s he going to say when he finds out someone promised to return Stonecliff?”
“He’s going to be furious, particularly when he can’t find the man who promised it.” He shrugged. “Under the circumstances, I had no choice. Besides, it occurred to me later that forfeiture of the land will happen as a matter of course. I didn’t really lie about ‘retiring from occupying the land.’ ” Kirah looked puzzled.
Lyim glanced over the battlement to check the retreat’s progress. “As I figure it, once your brother hears that his castle is being sieged, he’ll return immediately with every man he’s got, leaving Stonecliff undefended. If Berwick is smart, he’ll take measures to ensure that Stonecliff is not so easily taken from him again. Things will return to normal, unless your brother is foolish enough to start the whole cycle up again.”
“I can’t wait to see Cormac’s face when he returns and discovers some mystery man chased away the Berwicks!” With the impulsiveness of a happy child, Kirah threw her arms around Lyim’s neck and kissed his cheek.
Red-faced, the apprentice gripped her by the shoulders and set her back down. He looked intently at the young girl. “You know, Kirah, that you can never tell anyone what we did today. Can I trust you to keep our secret after I’m gone?”
Kirah felt suddenly deflated, and it had nothing to do with their secret. Of course Lyim would leave, she chided herself. How could he stay? He had a life somewhere else … with Guerrand. It was just that, for a day, she’d had someone to confide in again. She would miss it more than ever now. More than Lyim knew, things would, indeed, return to normal again. And normal was nearly death to Kirah.
The young girl sighed. “Of course I can keep our secret,” she murmured. Struck with a thought, Kirah gave him a penetrating look. “Why did you do all this?”
Lyim held his palms up. “Never explain, never defend, that’s my motto,” he said.
Kirah’s expression was pure envy. “Rand is very lucky to have a friend who would risk life and limb for his family.”
Lyim’s dark head shook from side to side, his hair brushing Kirah’s cheek. “Rand would do the same for me,” said the mage kindly, steering her back down the stairs.
The task done, Lyim felt the pressure to return to Palanthas. It had taken twice as long to reach Guerrand’s homeland as they’d planned for, and Lyim was afraid even inattentive Belize would begin to wonder where he was. The faster he released Rietta and sent the missive to Cormac, the sooner he could return to Palanthas and tell Guerrand the good news. Saving his friend’s family, Lyim felt certain, more than made up for his behavior at the Jest.
Lyim watched his friend’s kid sister scamper happily down the steps and smiled affectionately. He liked Kirah, and it was obvious she had grown more than a little fond of him. He liked that, too. He was used to females falling for his charms. One never knew when life paths would cross again, and it never hurt to have friends in many ports. Just like it never hurt to have friends in your debt.
Peering through wooden louvers in the vestibule, Guerrand watched Esme speak to Harlin and Mitild, the guardian statues, then depart the formal garden for the road that led into the city. Guerrand crept through the atrium like a hapless thief with a guilty secret. Thank the gods Justarius was proxy for Belize at tonight’s meeting of the Council of Three. With Esme having just left for the Library of Palanthas, he would have all the time he needed to search her small room.
Lyim had been gone for nearly three weeks. Guerrand thought it likely the apprentice had made it to Northern Ergoth by now, if he hadn’t been thrown overboard for casting spells. Had he spoken with Kirah yet? Had he been able to stop the siege on the castle? Guerrand wondered about these things often, envying the other apprentice’s freedom. He would give anything, except his apprenticeship, to see his little sister for even a moment.
At the far right corner of the peristyle was the formal dining room that separated Guerrand’s room from Esme’s. Justarius’s two apprentices kept different hours—Esme rose early, Guerrand stayed up late—so their paths didn’t cross often. He had never been in her room, but he always paused outside his own to glance through the ornate archway into her antechamber. He liked to picture her at work inside, bent over a spellbook, chewing at the end of her braid in concentration.
After looking over both shoulders for Denbigh, Guerrand slipped through the arch. The antechamber was dark, but as his eyes adjusted, he saw that its curved walls were elaborately painted with bright reds, yellows, and blues, outlined in gold. A smaller archway, curtained off with heavy velvet, lay before him.
Guerrand moved quickly toward the curtain and pulled it back, hoping that Esme was more trusting than she ought to be. So far, so good, Guerrand thought when no spell-sprung thing leaped out or pinned him down. A light blinked on. Guerrand froze.
He spotted the source and slowly released his breath. A small glass
globe, much like those in Justarius’s lab, rested on a three-legged vallenwood table polished to a high gloss. Esme must have enchanted it to light the room whenever she passed through the curtain. It was a clever trick, which Guerrand resolved to remember.
Esme’s sleeping room was very like his own, though the decorations bore a woman’s touch. All about were bowls of sweet-smelling rose and lavender petals. Ever the mage, she, too, had shelves of pickled creatures, but she had far more dried herbs arranged in eye-pleasing wreaths and swags woven with strands of pearls and semiprecious gems. Skeins of ribbon and woolen yarn hung from a peg on the wall, waiting to tie up more drying bundles of herbs.
Guerrand was impressed. Where his room looked dim, stuffed, and cluttered, Esme’s was well lit, neat, and inviting. There was something interesting to look at on every surface and in every corner.
Tucked into the harp-shaped back of her desk was a small cameo, black-inked on golden parchment. The subject’s profile looked so familiar that Guerrand was drawn in for a closer glimpse. Strong patrician nose and chin—it could have been Esme, save for the long, curling mustache above the full lips. Her father, Guerrand concluded.
The realization touched off new feelings of guilt. He was violating her privacy, and to what end? He honestly didn’t believe she had anything to do with the threats on his life. Guerrand was forced to admit that curiosity about the young woman had driven him here, kept him here now.
Guerrand turned and scrambled through the soft, heavy curtain into the antechamber. The glow from the globe flowed under the curtain and splashed his feet with light. He waited a few moments to see if it would turn off of its own accord. It didn’t.
“Damnation!” he grumbled under his breath. If Esme came back and the light was glowing, she’d know someone had been in her room. Swearing again, Guerrand swept back the curtain and approached the globe. He peered at it closer, not really expecting to find a switch or directions.
Night of the Eye Page 23
