“Reasonably.” The truth was, Cam wasn’t entirely certain. He and his twin sister, Carina, had been forced from their home twelve years ago by their father, a man who despised magic in any form.
“I thought your brother was one of Leather John’s friends,” Rhistiart added.
“Alvior was.” His eldest brother, Alvior, had supported the Divisionists against King Donelan, then managed to escape, barely eluding the king’s guards. “But it’s Renn who’s been in charge since Alvior sailed off across the sea, and Renn was always partial to Carina and me. He was just little when we were sent away.”
“Think it’s a trick?” Rhistiart fingered the hilt of the sword that hung at his belt, but Cam guessed that in a fight, Rhistiart would do better throwing crockery than trying to score with a blade.
“Maybe. I hope not. We’ll be careful.”
“So if Renn’s letter is true, you’re the new Lord of Brunnfen?”
Cam gave a harsh laugh. “Wait until you see the place before you get too impressed. Brunnfen is one of the oldest manor houses in Isencroft. It’s cold and damp both summer and winter. Brunnfen was built for defense, not as a home, so it’s got precious few windows and it’s dark. Has its share of ghosts, too, and more than a few have bad tempers. I didn’t have the chance to ask Renn, but if Mother died pining away for Carina and me, and Alvior murdered Father, the place might have two new ghosts—just what I need.”
“Do you think Lady Carina will ever come home?”
Cam sighed. Rhistiart was loyal and had proven to be unexpectedly brave, but the former silversmith had a penchant for talking day and night. Cam, who was used to the company of soldiers or to traveling with his twin sister, doubted he’d spoken as much to anyone in the last ten years as he had to Rhistiart, mainly because the man refused to accept silence as an answer. “Her home is in Dark Haven, with Jonmarc. If anything brings her for a visit, it’s Renn. She practically raised him when he was little. They were very close.”
Cam paused, then turned to look at Rhistiart. “So what made you decide to leave Dark Haven? You had a good offer to apprentice with a vayash moru silversmith. I saw his work—each one was a masterpiece. He sells his creations to every palace in the Winter Kingdoms—and to the nobles who can afford him. You could be home in a warm bed and safe.” He grinned. “And don’t try to tell me it’s my winning personality. Carina set me right on that long ago.”
Rhistiart smiled wistfully. “I expect I’ll go back to Dark Haven in a year or two and take him up on the offer. He’s immortal; he’s not going anywhere. But this,” he said with a sweep of his arm to take in the road ahead of them. “This kind of adventure comes once in a lifetime. How could I pass it up?”
Cam grimaced. “If you recall, ‘this kind of adventure’ nearly got the two of us killed a few months ago.” Cam’s injuries from the fight with the Divisionists had almost cost him a leg and had sent him to Carina for healing. Even now, he walked with a limp that would probably never go away, and he would be minus one finger on his left hand forever.
Rhistiart’s eyes got a joking gleam. “Besides, Dark Haven isn’t exactly a great place to meet women. But at the palace…”
Cam chuckled. “I don’t know. I saw some mighty fine vayash moru ladies who seemed to think you were interesting.”
Rhistiart shivered. “No thanks. Nothing against the vayash moru, but I prefer my women warm, and I’d rather take them out for dinner than be the dinner.”
Cam laughed. “Don’t expect a lot of choices at Brunnfen. The moors are a cold place, and it’s thinly settled. Most of the women are hardworking farm girls, although they’ll likely warm your bones.”
Rhistiart drew his cloak more closely around him. He and Cam were an unlikely pair; Cam was medium height and stocky, with a broad chest and thick, strong arms. A cloud of dark, curly hair framed his face and could make him seem as forbidding as storm clouds. Rhistiart was slim and spare, with lank, yellow hair and finely boned hands suited to the work of an artist. He was short enough that they’d had to search for a horse that was a comfortable height for Rhistiart to climb into the saddle unassisted, and had settled on a roan mare that seemed petite compared to Cam’s large warhorse.
“You’re going to wed once you get back to the palace!” Rhistiart protested. He grinned. “Now, I figure if you can snag a girl with your obvious charm and breeding, there might be someone who’d favor me.”
Cam chortled. “Rhosyn has no illusions about my ‘charm’ and ‘breeding.’ Her father’s the brewer for the palace, so she’s seen me well into my cups, and bless her, she seems to love me anyhow.”
He grew pensive at the thought. Although messengers between Isencroft and Dark Haven were few—and with the plague in Margolan, becoming more rare—Rhosyn had bargained and badgered seemingly every trader headed to Principality to carry a letter or a keg of ale to Cam in the six months he’d been recovering. Thanks to Jonmarc, vayash moru headed to Isencroft were willing to carry Cam’s messages back to Rhosyn. Rhistiart was quite right; when Cam returned to Aberponte, there’d be a handfasting within a fortnight.
“That’s well and good for you, but I’m a free man and I plan to enjoy it!”
Cam gave Rhistiart a sideways glance. “Last I knew, you were a ‘wanted’ man thanks to your late employer’s wife.”
Rhistiart screwed up his face and spat. “Crone take her soul. Although, in a perverse way, perhaps I owe her some gratitude. After all, if she hadn’t cheated me out of my share of the partnership when her cuckolded husband died, I wouldn’t have been hiding in that old fuller’s mill. And if I hadn’t been hiding there, freezing my balls off, I wouldn’t have met you and nearly been murdered by the Divisionists. But then, I wouldn’t have saved you or met the king, and while you were drugged and recuperating, King Donelan formally pardoned me for ‘service to the crown.’ So,” he said with a grin, “I’ve been a fugitive, an outlaw, and a hero, all in less than a year.” He stretched. “Life is good.”
After that, they rode in silence for a while. Cam glanced back, surprised at the lull in conversation, to find Rhistiart dozing in the saddle. He chuckled. Annoying as the silversmith could be at times, Cam had to admit he was good company, and Rhistiart kept him from brooding overmuch on the challenges that awaited him when he returned to King Donelan’s service.
It had taken more than three weeks to ride from Dark Haven to Isencroft. Along the way, Cam had gotten a good look at what a combination of war, famine, and plague had done to Margolan in the wake of Jared the Usurper’s brief, violent reign. It would probably take a generation to restore Margolan to its former prosperity, even under King Martris’s fair and judicious hand. The thought that civil war and poor harvests could wreak the same havoc in Isencroft chilled Cam and made him restless to return to Aberponte. But first, there was Brunnfen to deal with.
By midday, they crested a small hill. In the distance, Cam saw Brunnfen, and beyond it, the Northern Sea. Brunnfen was just as he had described it to Rhistiart: a fortresslike box of gray stone looking out over a high cliff across the cold sea, as unwelcoming in appearance as he remembered.
“You weren’t kidding,” Rhistiart said, bringing his horse up alongside Cam’s. “Looks more like a prison than a manor.”
Too many memories crowded in on Cam at once. “It often felt like a prison, even before things went badly with Father,” Cam said quietly. “Ah well, no use putting it off. Let’s get this over with.” Cam jerked the reins and his horse started down the road toward Brunnfen.
Before they had closed half of the distance, Cam saw a figure running toward them, waving its arms. Cam’s hand fell to the pommel of his sword out of habit, although he wasn’t quite close enough to hear what the man was shouting. His eyes widened as the runner grew closer.
“Cam! Cam! You came! I didn’t think you’d really come, but you did! Welcome home! Welcome home!”
The runner was breathless, stopping just a few paces before Cam’s horse. He was
a young man, a few years more than twenty seasons old, with straight, long brown hair caught back in a messy queue. Most of the strands fell into his eyes, eyes that were unmistakable in their resemblance to Carina’s. The man stood a little taller than Cam but was of an entirely different build, almost painfully thin, with an angular face and intelligent green eyes.
“Renn?” Cam breathed.
Out of breath, the runner could only nod. Cam slipped down from his horse and approached Renn slowly, and then clasped him tightly in an embrace. “You were barely waist high when we left,” Cam said, his throat tight. “Just a kid.”
Renn managed a grin. “Yeah, and now I’m a skinny, overworked stand-in for the real lord of the manor.”
Cam took another look at Renn. Alvior had imprisoned Renn in the dungeon when Renn had discovered his older brother’s disloyalty. Although a summer outdoors had restored some color to Renn’s skin, the young man’s eyes had a hauntedness Cam knew too well was a lasting reminder of captivity. It was also clear from the sinewy muscles in the young man’s arms that he had been truthful about taking an active role in keeping the manor afloat in the absence of an “official” lord.
Renn glanced at Rhistiart and seemed to look down the road behind them. Cam could guess what he sought. “I warned you Carina wouldn’t be coming,” he said gently. “Just Rhistiart—he’s kind of my squire—and me. Carina’s due to have twins late this fall.”
Renn met Cam’s eyes with a sad smile. “Twins. That’s what got you two into the mess with Father in the first place.”
Cam nodded. “Aye. Father might have suffered the ill omen of twins for Mother’s sake, but it was Carina’s magic that he couldn’t abide. And if you’re wondering, Carina believes that it’s likely that at least one of the babies will have her healing talent.”
“Is she really married to Jonmarc Vahanian? The outlaw?”
Cam clapped Renn on the shoulder. “Jonmarc’s still the most fearsome fighter the Winter Kingdoms have seen in a long while, but he’s a legitimate businessman these days, amazingly enough.” He chuckled. “Well, as legitimate as any business is in Principality, if you know what I mean.”
Renn laughed. “I haven’t traveled the kingdoms like you and Carina, but if the tales I’ve heard at the pub have been true in half, my sister’s descended into a shadowy place filled with rogues, vayash moru, and scoundrels.”
“Yeah, and that’s just the manor house,” Cam said and chuckled. “You ought to see the rest of the place!”
Cam got back on his horse, and Renn walked between Rhistiart and Cam as they headed toward Brunnfen. To Cam’s amusement, Renn chattered enough to silence even Rhistiart. Cam was unprepared for the rush of emotions that swept over him. Returning to Brunnfen after nearly twelve years in exile, he was surprised by the intensity of his feelings, as he rode across the threshold of a place he never expected would be his home again.
“Unfortunately, you won’t know most of the servants,” Renn said. “Some of the older ones, like the nurse who would have looked after you and Carina, died. Others were driven away when Alvior became lord.” Renn grimaced. “As you can imagine, he wasn’t easy to get along with—even before he took up with the Divisionists. It got bad enough, just before he threw me in the dungeon, that we barely had enough staff to run the kitchens and look after the stables.
“Then, when King Donelan’s men set me free, I had a manor with no staff, since they’d all fled for their lives, thinking the king was going to arrest them for helping Alvior. I had a terrible time convincing them to come back in time to get any planting done.”
Renn sighed, suddenly seeming much older than his years. “I’ve managed to get the manor back up almost to full staffing, although we’re practically penniless.” He grimaced. “Alvior apparently gave quite a bit of Father’s money to the Divisionists. Whatever he did with it, it’s gone. But with crops in the fields and the herds gathered, we won’t starve, and that alone was good enough for most of the servants, plus the guarantee of a roof for the winter. They’re scared that Isencroft might get the plague, and Brunnfen is out of the way enough that I guess they thought it was better to come here than to try their luck in the city.”
“You’ve done a great job, Renn,” Cam said as a stable boy ran out to take their horses. Cam looked around at the familiar courtyard. The buildings were the same, but when he inspected them more closely, he could see the toll that neglect had taken. Despite Renn’s efforts, Brunnfen looked shabby and down on its luck, and while it had always been a forbidding place, it had never before looked impoverished.
Renn smiled weakly. “I mostly made it up as I went along, but I wanted to keep it from falling apart before you could get here.” He paused. “You’re going to stay, aren’t you?”
Cam met Renn’s eyes. “I can’t, not right now. Donelan needs me. The Divisionists dispersed, but they’re not broken. If plague does come, along with a lean harvest, there could be riots. There’s nothing like hunger and fear to bring out challengers to the throne.”
“So it’s true,” Renn murmured. “You really are the King’s Champion.”
Cam nodded. “Aye, although I’m a rather busted up old warhorse these days, I’m afraid. But Carina fixed me well enough to soldier, and as long as I have breath, I’m sworn to Donelan’s service.”
“Did he tell you he’s getting married?” Rhistiart blurted. It was so unexpected Cam suspected Rhistiart was about to burst from his long silence.
Renn raised an eyebrow. “A potential lady of the manor?”
Cam laughed. “The daughter of the Brewers Guild master in the palace city.” He pursed his lips as he thought. “Although… that gives me an idea. Someday my bones won’t bounce back from battle, and then I imagine I’ll need a place to retire. It would be nice to have good ale. Tell me, how is the grain harvest looking?”
Renn grinned. “If you want something to ferment, you’ve come to the right place. We’ve got a good crop of grain in the field, and a bumper crop of apples and plums. Not to mention fields of potatoes.”
Cam’s smile widened. “And in my experience, no matter how bleak it gets, men will always find coin for something to drink. Perhaps I can borrow someone from Rhosyn’s father’s guild to set up shop in Brunnfen. With a percentage coming to the lord, it might work out well all ways around.”
“See, thinking like the lord already,” Renn said, clapping Cam on the shoulder. “Come on inside, both of you. I won’t promise you the kind of dinner you get at the palace, but the cook’s been working up a welcome home meal and I don’t want it to get cold!”
Two servants appeared in order to carry the travelers’ saddlebags upstairs and take their cloaks. Cam and Rhistiart followed Renn into the great room. After the long ride, Cam’s limp was pronounced and his injured leg ached. Renn seemed not to notice the limp. The room was much as Cam remembered it, a long, cold hall with a huge fireplace at one end. It was too warm to have the fire lit, though come winter, a bonfire would scarcely heat Brunnfen’s cold stone. A layer of candle smoke hung near the ceiling from the tallow candles. The unmistakable smell of roasting goose filled the air, along with the scent of leeks, onions, and fresh bread. Cam’s stomach growled, and even Rhistiart looked hungry.
Three places were set on the long, empty table. A pitcher of ale and tankards sat next to pewter dishes that were dented and dinged from hard use. Cam looked at the bare walls and frowned.
“I remember there being tapestries,” he murmured.
Renn sighed. “There were. Alvior had them burned after Father’s death, Crone take his soul. Not that I was necessarily fond of the pictures on the tapestries, but they did help keep down the chill. Quite a few things disappeared like that—either destroyed when Alvior was in one of his moods or, more likely, sold off to raise money for his pet rebels.”
They sat down at the table and a plump woman in her middle years brought out a roast goose on a platter. Cam could tell the woman was trying to get a good look
at him without staring.
“I hope this is to your liking, Lord Cam,” she said with an awkward curtsey. “Master Renn told us you’re used to the fancy food they serve at the palace.”
Cam eyed the goose and the baking dishes full of vegetables that two serving girls placed on the table. He met the woman’s gaze. “Believe me when I tell you that after three weeks on the road, no meal has ever smelled or looked as good.”
The plump woman blushed. “Thank you, m’lord. I’m sure you don’t remember me, but I was a kitchen girl when you and m’lady Carina were just little. You used to nip dried fruit from the pocket of my apron and I pretended not to notice.”
Cam laughed. “I do remember!”
The woman chuckled. “Now that you’re home, I’ll bake up some fresh cakes for you by evening.”
There was silence as the three men ate. Even Rhistiart paid more attention to his plate than to conversation. When they were finished, the servants brought out a warm plum pudding and a pitcher of mulled wine, then left them alone once more.
Cam leaned back and sipped at his drink. “So what made you suspect that Alvior had thrown in with the Divisionists?” he asked, watching Renn.
Renn was quiet for a few moments, with a sad expression. “Looking back, I should have guessed sooner. I didn’t even realize at first that Alvior had murdered Father. Made it look like an accident, but later, I could see that he’d arranged it.” He knocked back the rest of the wine as if it were brandy, a gesture that told Cam quite a bit about how hard the years had been for his younger brother.
“You have to understand, after you and Carina… left, there was no one to take my part against Father—or Alvior.” He turned his face in profile so that Cam could see the scar that sliced through his right eyebrow down onto his cheek. “Alvior gave me that one night when I got in his way. Must have been about twelve years old. Cracked me over the head with a pewter goblet for something that annoyed him. Father never said anything.”
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