“That’s not canny,” Garth half muttered.
“You’ll get used to it,” Idgen Marte said flatly.
“So all of you are bestowed with these Gifts, I believed you called them?” Audreyn, after her initial shock, pursed her lips and adjusted the hood of her cloak. “Even the girl and the boy?”
“My name is Mol, and his is Gideon,” the priestess called out, as she walked unworried amidst the scramble of horse’s hooves. Idgen Marte, meanwhile, picked out her own lean brown courser from the crowd and moved to its side, running her hands along its flanks.
“That was our grandfather’s name,” Audreyn said, turning to Gideon. “Did you know that?”
“Yes,” Gideon slowly turned his eyes to Audreyn’s face. “Allystaire told me as much when he offered it to me.”
She frowned, one delicate eyebrow pointing downward. “My brother named you?”
“Yes,” the boy replied. “I had not yet earned one, so Allystaire and Torvul took it upon themselves to offer them to me. Gideon appealed to me.”
“And what is the nature of your Gift then, Gideon? Are you to be a knight like my brother?”
“Knighthood is a foolish and stultifying tradition,” Gideon replied. “And I will have no part of it. As to your first question, I do not know if you would understand the answer.”
Audreyn’s back suddenly stiffened and her mouth drew into a thin line. By that point, though, Allystaire had approached and couldn’t stifle his laughter at Gideon’s answer.
“Please do not be offended, sister,” he said. “I promise you he does not mean to speak down to you or to imply that you are stupid. I have known the boy for months now and I do not understand half of what he says. And our Gifts,” he added, catching Audreyn’s eyes, “are not something we discuss. The time may come that you see them.”
“I’ve seen yours,” Garth replied. “When you broke my leg.”
“And then healed it,” Allystaire added quickly.
“Not before you grabbed ahold of my voice and forced me to speak,” the blond knight said, a bit of heat creeping into his words.
“To speak the truth,” Allystaire replied calmly. “I could not force you to do otherwise. And I am sorry about the leg. For what it is worth, Garth, that was the first time Her strength came over me. I did not know what to expect.”
“You did horrid things that day, Allystaire. Terrible things,” Garth said. “I have seen as many battlefields as any man alive, but what you did to Casamir? I turn as green as a squire seeing his first blood to think of it.”
“Casamir had wanted killing for years. Since he had grown old enough to realize how he could use his strength and his station, really,” Allystaire replied. “I am not going to lie—Cold, I cannot—and say I did not take some satisfaction in being the instrument of his death.”
“You cut him in half with the blow of a hammer! With him in good Oyrwyn plate!”
“I know precisely what I did, Garth,” Allystaire replied. He looked from the knight to his sister and said, “You wanted to discuss our Gifts? Fine, then. That strength that came upon me that day, Garth, when did it happen?”
“When we put the fetters on you.”
“Wrong,” Allystaire said, his voice still calm and even. “Think closely. When did it happen?”
“I remember taking your hammer from your belt, and then suddenly everything went to the Cold.”
“When Casamir ordered Miles to ride the boy down,” Allystaire replied. “The strength comes on me when I know, beyond any doubt, that innocent folk are endangered, and when I must put my life at risk to save them. Are the results of that strength pretty? No. But they are necessary. Terrible to behold. Those were the Mother’s words to me. And it was. And I would do it again without a second thought. Now,” he said, looking to the destrier behind him, “we are done speaking of it. I want to get my horse to a stable and spend some time with the comb and the brush, make sure he is fed and watered and ready to be ridden. And to make sure he knows I appreciate all that he has done and risked for me.”
As if he understood Allystaire’s words, Ardent stamped at the ground and let out a quiet chuff, breath streaming into the cold air.
“It’s just a horse, Allystaire,” Audreyn said dismissively, moving right back to her earlier theme.
“He might be. Or he might be a miracle, or being a horse and a miracle are one and the same. Nevertheless, I will do precisely as I said, because this horse has been a truer friend to me than all but the four who serve Her with me, and has risked his life for me time and again.”
“You don’t sound like the man who taught me,” Garth said then, shaking his head, as the party turned to head back for Thornhurst.
“You would do well to forget much of what that man said.”
CHAPTER 3
Negotiations
“My thanks for retrieving our horses,” Chaddin said, standing over a hissing brazier, holding his hands near the flames. His tent did little to keep the wind out, but standing near any of the three iron braziers spaced around it made it tolerable. “I thought we’d never see them again.”
Allystaire and Idgen Marte stood a few paces away from him near a brazier of their own. “They did just as Mol told them to,” Allystaire said with a shrug. “They should have been brought back in immediately after the battle, honestly. My apologies that it took so long.”
“We would’ve gone to get them ourselves if we’d the liberty of leaving the village,” Chaddin muttered. He’d grown a patchy blond beard since Allystaire had last seen him, highlighting the features and light coloration that marked him as Lionel Delondeur’s son. Unacknowledged or not, the history of the soldier’s parentage was there for anyone who’d known the Baron well to see. “Weren’t we your allies in the fight? Why aren’t we being treated as such?”
“Because you were ready to murder surrendered enemies the instant he was indisposed,” Idgen Marte said grimly, pointing at Allystaire. “And there’d been enough Freezing death by then.”
“I was ready to do what must be done,” Chaddin insisted. “Landen was at the Baron’s side. Have you forgotten that? With him through the assault, the sorcerers—”
Allystaire raised a hand to halt Chaddin and spoke once he fell silent. “That Landen supported her father and ousted you is evident. I believe it is less than certain as to whether she shares blame for the actions of the sorcerers, the creation of the Battle-Wights, or for what your father had done at the end.”
Chaddin shivered at the memory of it, and not from the biting cold. “Do not call him my father,” he said. “He may have gotten me on my mother, and taken me into his service when she presented me, but he hadn’t much choice in the matter. I was just another soldier to him.”
“Fine,” Allystaire agreed. “My point remains. I do not know how much Landen knew.”
“She is her father’s daughter. That ought to be enough.”
“That ought never be enough.”
“How do you plan to sort it out, then?”
Allystaire smiled. “I will simply ask her what she knew, and when.”
“And when she lies?”
Idgen Marte laughed and Allystaire sighed. “Come here, Chaddin. Please. I will do no harm to you.” As he spoke, he pulled a thick glove off his hand and held it out. When Chaddin approached, he laid it lightly on the man’s neck. “I am going to ask a simple question. Try to dissemble, to lie to me about the answer. Now, who was your mother?”
Chaddin tilted his head and started to shrug Allystaire’s hand off, but the paladin wouldn’t budge. Finally the man blurted out, “A camp follower named Esme.” Then he did break away from Allystaire’s touch, shoving his hand away and stepping back.
“I tell no one that! How did you do that?”
“I am a paladin, Chaddin,” Allystaire said. “You have seen me do it befo
re, to Lionel. I thought simply showing you would be faster than explaining.”
Chaddin’s high cheekbones were colored red with shame. “Why that?”
“It seemed a harmless enough question. And it is a harmless enough answer.”
“It is a shameful one.”
Idgen Marte snorted then, looking away in disgust.
“Why?” Allystaire narrowed his eyes slightly as he asked the question.
“To be the son of a whore? How could it not be shameful?”
“I’d rather be the son of an honest whore than find pride in bein’ the spawn of a man like Lionel Delondeur,” Idgen Marte spat. “And before you go condemning your mother think about what choices she had. Fewer than you did, no doubt.”
“Chaddin, I have known many camp followers and many Barons. I prefer the company of the former. And I promise you the latter have far more reason to be ashamed,” Allystaire said. “If you wish to speak about it more, we can. For now, I want to know what you and your men need, and what you are willing to do.”
“Our mounts are a good start. Our arms, liberty of the town, Landen’s head.”
“The last you will not get,” Allystaire said. “And given that you ask, I am not inclined to release your arms. Liberty, though, you shall have. In parties no greater than three at a time, I am afraid.” Chaddin glowered, but Allystaire pressed on. “I do not seek to punish you. I would reward you for your aid against the Baron if I could, and I still might find a way, but these are poor folk, and my purse has long since grown thin. The situation remains tense. If I were to let all of you out at once, I could not stop you from butchering Landen’s lot without a bloodbath. I do not want any more blood shed on this ground. Do you understand?”
Chaddin nodded, then turned away, swiping a hand aimlessly through the air, the fingers curling into a fist for a moment.
“Chaddin,” Allystaire said, “when we met you in Londray, I was impressed by your calm, the way you carried yourself, your assurance and composure. You seemed everything I would have wanted in a sergeant, or an officer. And now your head is hotter than I remember. Why is that? Is it simply the ambition of a Baron’s seat? Has it worked on you so quickly? Do not answer. Think on it, aye? I will go to see Landen now, but I will stop and have orders given about your liberty. I will also have wine and ale brought, decent stuff. If you want for any necessity, I will do what I can. We will talk again later.” Then he extended his hand.
Chaddin watched Allystaire carefully as he spoke and took the offered hand, shook firmly and heartily, but remained silent as Allystaire and Idgen Marte took their leave.
Outside the flaps of the tent, two soldiers, their grey Oyrwyn livery padded beneath with many layers of wool and fur, snapped to attention as Allystaire appeared. He gave them a simple wave and they relaxed almost imperceptibly.
After a few paces distance, Idgen Marte said, “You have a way with those sorts of men. Soldiers, I mean. At his core, that’s what Chaddin is.”
“I ought to. I had the charge of thousands of them,” Allystaire replied.
“Plenty of men are given rank and status. Doesn’t mean they know what to do with it,” Idgen Marte pointed out.
“But with Chaddin, it is not hard to see, is it?” Allystaire asked as they began traversing the village. Few folk moved out of doors, though here and there were small parties clearing away the rubble of the battle. Allystaire was glad that he’d missed the task of dealing with the bodies.
He thought, if he breathed deeply, beneath the overpowering cold he could detect just a bit of the rotten stench he’d known for more than a score of years. He tried not to.
“What isn’t?”
Allystaire sighed. “That he is a good man, trustworthy, brave, composed. You threatened to kill him, remember, when he arrested me. Put the point of your sword right before his eye. Did he blink?”
Idgen Marte shook her head. “He didn’t.”
“Precisely. We left him holding a bag of shit. The Baron in chains, a weak foundation of power based on a few loyal soldiers, and a riot at his walls as the professional army scrambled to get home.”
Idgen Marte winced. “I was hoping you’d forgotten that part.”
Allystaire eyed her a moment, and then sighed. “You did what you needed to do. I made my peace with it.” He paused on the track and looked back to the cluster of tents that held Chaddin and his men. “And yet, despite all that was arrayed against him, he held it together. At least until a woman with more loyal swords, a better legal claim, and sorcerers showed up to take it from him. And still, he did not panic. He came seeking allies. He was not ready to give up the fight. And that,” Allystaire said, raising a finger, “tells us some important things.”
He turned and they resumed walking, Idgen Marte matching pace with him easily. He walked fast, trying to build up warmth in his limbs. “Unfortunately, I am worried about what sitting in the Baron’s chair for a few weeks has done to his ambition. Is the idea of Baron Chaddin Delondeur fixed so firmly in his mind that he cannot let it go?”
“So what if it is? You’ve said yourself we aren’t out to meddle in politics.”
“I am not thinking of meddling, precisely,” Allystaire replied. “But what else are we to do? Turn them loose into the village? They will murder each other and our folk are caught between them. And if we can find a way to avoid the Barony tearing itself apart in blood, so much the better.”
“What d’ya have in mind, then?”
“I am not sure yet. I have to talk to Landen. I have some ideas.”
“You do know that hanging the Baron’s daughter is likely to be looked on sourly, aye?”
Allystaire stopped, fixing a curious look at Idgen Marte. “What makes you think I mean to hang her?”
Idgen Marte stared. “I remember Sir Miles.”
“If Landen proves to have dabbled in the same waters as her father, then yes,” Allystaire said, “she probably dies. As far as I am concerned, we have the right. I do not know enough to hang her yet.”
“Didn’t Lionel have other children? Sons?”
“Aye, but Landen is the one who matters.”
“Oldest?”
Allystaire shook his head. “Not how Barony Delondeur decides the matter. Cold, Lionel himself was the youngest of three. Delondeurs go into the world and make something of themselves, then return and claim the seat. That Landen is the only one who returned in Lionel’s moment of need might mean that she is the only one who still lives.”
“So what is your plan?”
“I told you, I do not know. But I am not leading with the noose.” He paused. “I am not ruling it out, either.”
“That’s an improvement, anyway.”
They managed the rest of the walk in relative silence until they passed swaths of scorched earth past the Temple.
“Where the sorcerers died,” Idgen Marte said. “That was an ugly business.”
“I know,” Allystaire said. “I saw it. From…elsewhere,” he added, as he sensed her forming the question.
“I can only hold off asking you about all that for so long,” Idgen Marte said.
“Hold off a while longer,” Allystaire said. A few minutes more of walking, and, spread out just beyond the east gate, they found where Landen and the remnants of the Delondeur host were guarded, tucked into a tent at center of the Oyrwyn camp that sprawled eastward.
Allystaire noted with some pride the way Garth had laid the camp out. Tents were staggered, not laid out in neat rows, all the better to confuse an attacker. Horses were picketed in different locations to make striking at them more difficult, and guard patrols moved along in groups of three, their armor bright and their weapons—mattocks or long, two-handed axes on shoulders, short swords on belts—well cared for, clean and deadly looking.
“Coldbourne men,” Allystaire muttered as he saw the
weapons and the livery they wore, a hawk in the rising position, brown on a dark green field.
“What’s the bird?”
“A harrier, also called a marsh hawk,” Allystaire replied. “It had long been the device of Coldbourne, but my grandfather changed the posture when granted the fief from the close to the rising, to symbolize how he had risen in life.” He pause. “It is an ugly thing, is it not?”
“No more or less than most,” Idgen Marte replied. “I would wager that once upon a time it mattered to you very much.”
“Aye,” Allystaire agreed. “It did.” He avoided looking at the standards flying over the pavilion in the middle of the camp, both the Coldbourne Hawk and the Highgate Towered Wall, and avoided the stares of the men in dark green surcoats as he passed, conscious of the weight of their eyes as he moved among them. Not one of them said a word.
Allystaire twitched aside the flap into the prisoner’s tent and was shocked, both at what he saw and what he didn’t see.
What he saw was a knot of figures clinging miserably together, barely dressed for a Barony indoors, much less in a tent. A few blankets were stretched across the outer ring of them, but none wore cloaks or coats.
What he didn’t see were braziers, a firepit, fuel, or furniture of any kind.
“This,” he lightly growled, “will not do.” He turned on a heel and flung open the tent again. His voice cracked like a whip when he called out. “BANNERMAN!”
A passing soldier whose dark green surcoat bore three brown stripes beneath the Hawk badge stopped and snapped to attention. “M’lord!”
“Fetch the Lord of Highgate, if you would. With all speed.” Allystaire paused. “Please. Tell him that I wish to discuss the disposition of his hostages.”
The man saluted by clicking his heels and thumping a closed fist on his chest, then moved off at a run.
Allystaire headed back inside the tent, slipping his own cloak, a heavy brown fur he’d never tried to identify, off his back and handing it to the nearest Delondeur prisoner.
“Landen?” He peered among the knot of shivering prisoners. Blonde, tall, with pale skin stretched taut over strong cheekbones that made her resemble her father, Landen stood and picked her way past her men, grimacing.
Crusade Page 3
