The Sworn

by Gail Z. Martin

  Donelan nodded. “I’m trying not to take it as a bad omen that all of them sent replies by vayash moru to shave time off the trip. Kalcen is readying his army, and he says we can count on him to hold their coast. Of all the allied kingdoms, Eastmark is probably in the best position to defend itself. Plague hasn’t taken hold there, and their last harvest was good. Word came from Principality that their mercs would rise to the cause, but Staden’s seneschal added a note that the king is very ill.”

  “Jonmarc Vahanian is Princess Berwyn’s liegeman,” Cam said quietly. “If war comes, he’ll be at the forefront. I know Dark Haven will rally.”

  “Tris Drayke pledged his support, of course, but that’s a thorny problem.” Donelan took a long drink of his brandy and sighed as it burned down his throat. “We don’t dare let the Margolan army onto Isencroft soil, and it’s anyone’s guess whether Tris can put much of a force together, after all they’ve been through over there.”

  “What of their navies?” Wilym asked.

  Donelan shrugged ill-humoredly. “I’m not entirely sure what Eastmark has in ships. Principality runs its navy the same way it runs its army. It provides sanctuary to mercenaries and privateers who pledge never to sell sword against them. The letter from Principality said they had the gold to assure the privateers’ loyalty. Margolan never has had much of a navy, but I believe Tris when he says he’ll bring everything they have against the invaders. Damn it all to the Abyss!”

  “Do you believe what the Oracle said? That this could be a War of Unmaking?” Cam asked quietly.

  “You know what I usually think of those shrouded biddies,” Donelan grumbled. “Skulking around without showing their faces, always talking in blasted riddles. It’ll be a War of Unmaking for the poor bastards who die on the field, that’s for certain. As for the rest of us,” he said and paused, then upended the rest of his brandy. “I’ll worry about chaos after we make it through the battle.”

  Donelan stood abruptly and stretched. “Damn, I wish Viata were here.” He looked up at the painting of his late wife that graced the wall above the mantel. Viata stood tall and proud, forever young, with the darkly beautiful features that made her royal Eastmark heritage clear. She wore the signet of the queen of Isencroft clearly on her right hand, and at her throat was a necklace with the crest of Eastmark, although Cam knew that her father, King Radomar, never forgave her for marrying Donelan.

  “She was a fine woman, very brave, and shrewd about things like war. She was Radomar’s heir in backbone, that’s for certain,” Donelan said wistfully. He set his glass aside and closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Ah well, perhaps it’s best she didn’t see these dark days.”

  Donelan turned back to them, and it was as if he willed his mood to lift. “Well then, if we’re headed to war, I want to hunt tomorrow. The stag are plentiful, and if we go to war I’m likely to miss another shot at them. I’d prefer a winter hunt, but there’s no telling where we’ll be by the time the snow flies.” He nodded toward Wilym and Cam. “You’ll come with me. A good hunt clears the head. It’ll take time for the army to be ready to march. No one will miss us tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure it’s safe, Your Majesty?” Wilym asked.

  Donelan snorted. “I doubt Alvior managed to win over the king’s deer to his treason. Bring along a guard or two if you must, but mind that you don’t plan to march a squadron into the woods. You’ll scare off all the game!”

  Wilym chuckled. “Yes, m’lord. As you wish.”

  Donelan looked at Cam. “You’d best get that silversmith of yours outfitted. You’ll need a battle squire.”

  “Rhistiart? I hardly think—”

  Donelan’s gaze was shrewd. “He’s loyal and he’s proven that he can keep a clear head under pressure. That’s more than I can say for most men. These are hard times, m’lad. He’ll have to do.”

  Cam was sure Donelan could read his uncertainty in his expression, but he nodded. “He wanted an adventure. I think he’s already gotten more than he bargained for, but I’ll tell him.”

  Donelan clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. Good. Now both of you, make sure you’re ready for the hunt tomorrow. It may be quite a long time before we have the chance to do this again, and I want to enjoy every minute of it.”

  The next day dawned clear and crisp. The Feast of the Departed at the equinox was still more than a week away, but the air had already turned cold in Isencroft. Cam felt his spirits come close to lifting for the first time since he had left Brunnfen. A glance at Wilym told Cam that the head of the Veigonn was almost enjoying the day as well. They’d left their horses tethered at the edge of the forest. Now, Donelan, Cam, Wilym, and two guards walked silently through the forest armed with bows in search of a prize stag.

  It was the kind of sacrifice Donelan would only have made for war. Cam knew that Donelan much preferred to hunt when snow lay on the ground. Donelan was an expert tracker, and a good bit of his enjoyment came from the skill of finding his quarry. Cam also knew that the king was quite partial to venison. Although the king had helped to cull the herd earlier in the year when starvation threatened to weaken the deer, those had not been trophy hunts. Today’s hunt might give Donelan a rack of antlers and bragging rights for the season.

  Donelan moved slightly ahead, watching for deer. The two guardsmen were unwillingly forced to spread out, flanking the group to drive game into the king’s path. Cam and Wilym watched the forest, but their interest was in protecting the king, and not in the wildlife.

  The brush to his right shuddered and something streaked from cover. Cam had his bow leveled before his mind recognized that a rabbit had been flushed from cover. He held his shot and gave Wilym a grin.

  “Must be my stomach aiming. I’m as fond of rabbit stew as I am of venison!”

  Wilym returned the smile, but it did not reach his eyes. Instead, he continued to scan the brush for trouble. But as the morning wore on without incident, even he began to relax, just a little.

  A pheasant burst from its cover, scared into flight by their approach. This time, Cam’s arrow flew, catching the bird through the breast. It fell with a soft thump, and Cam tied off its legs and slung it over his shoulder.

  Suddenly, Donelan stopped. He gestured silently for Cam and Wilym to freeze, and motioned ahead. Through the brush, Cam could just see a large rack of antlers. Donelan moved forward in a crouch, putting more room between himself and the others, drawing his bow for the shot.

  Two arrows sang through the air. Donelan’s arrow found its mark, lodging in the stag’s shoulder, but in the same breath, a quarrel flew from the branches of a tree behind them, catching the king through the back.

  “Up there!” Wilym shouted, running to cover the king, his own bow drawn and ready.

  Cam gave a shout and launched himself at the tree where the bowman had hidden. He could hear the other soldiers crashing through the brush to get to them, but his full attention was on the tree.

  Another quarrel tore through the air, barely missing Cam. Cam dove and lunged, coming up on the far side of the tree. Despite his bulk, Cam moved with surprising speed, something his opponents seldom realized until it was too late. And while Cam’s bad leg shaved some time off his run, his upper body, muscular from a decade of wielding heavy swords, was easily up to the task of hauling himself into the branches and helping him scramble toward where the attacker hid.

  “Guard the king!” Cam shouted to the soldiers. Yet another quarrel flew past him, but it went wide and sank into a branch over his head. Cam had dropped his bow, and he carried a knife between his teeth. He peered around the trunk, and another quarrel shot past him, flying wild as leaves and branches sent it off course. It was enough for Cam to get an idea of where the shooter was. In one fluid movement, Cam stood and released his knife. Heavier than the quarrel, the blade cut through the small branches without losing its course. Cam heard the blade strike flesh. A man cried out, and as Cam stepped around the trunk for a better view, he saw a man falling
, spread-eagled, to the ground below.

  By the time Cam shinnied down the tree, the two soldiers stood over the downed man. They, too, had slung their bows over their shoulders, and they held the prisoner at sword’s point. In the field, Wilym knelt beside the king. Donelan wasn’t moving, and Cam felt his heart in his throat as he ran to Wilym.

  “Is he—”

  Wilym shook his head and Donelan groaned. “He’s alive. Thanks to the chain mail he’s got on under his shirt, it’s not as bad as it could have been, although since the bowman was above us, the angle made it penetrate more than a straight shot should have.”

  “Do we move him or have someone ride for Trygve?” Trygve, the king’s personal battle healer, was back at Aberponte. It would be a candlemark’s ride one way, a long time to lie bleeding in a field.

  Wilym shook his head. “I certainly haven’t got Trygve’s gift, but there’s a bit of hedge witch in my blood, enough to do some basic field healing. Cover us.” With that, Wilym closed his eyes and let his hands hover just above where the thick shaft of the quarrel protruded from the king’s shoulder. After a moment, Wilym frowned, and then let out his breath and opened his eyes.

  “It’s torn up some muscle and sinew, but it missed the artery, thank the Lady. He’ll need Trygve to patch him up good as new if he means to fight soon, but, with the king’s permission, I can get the arrowhead out safely. As far as I can tell, it wasn’t poisoned. That’s something else to be thankful for.”

  “Just pull the damned thing out!” Donelan’s voice was muffled as he lay face down in the grass, but there was no mistaking his imperative.

  “This is going to hurt,” Wilym warned.

  “Get on with it!”

  Cam stood guard over them while Wilym braced himself and then kept up steady traction on the arrow to remove it from where it was lodged. Donelan grunted but did not cry out, although once the arrow was free, Donelan showed a bent for creative cursing that made Cam shake his head in approval.

  “Stay still, Your Majesty,” Wilym warned. “I’ve still got to stop the bleeding and do what I can to set the healing on the right path until we can get you to Trygve.”

  “Blast that! What about my stag?”

  Cam walked toward the brush where they had spotted the antlers. A fresh deer carcass was held upright by a wooden rack, with the body mostly obscured behind brush. The antlers that had tantalized Donelan and lured him into range appeared to have been cobbled together from several pairs, upon closer inspection.

  Cam returned to where Donelan sat, impatiently allowing Wilym to bind up his shoulder with strips torn from his shirt. “Well?”

  “The deer was a trick. Someone knew you were planning to hunt and had a fondness for prize stag. The antlers aren’t even real.”

  “By the Whore! Bring me the man who shot at me. I want answers!” Donelan was as angry as Cam had ever seen him, and Cam had the distinct impression that the king was as enraged about losing his deer as he was about the attempt on his life.

  Cam motioned for the two soldiers to bring their prisoner forward. They had bound the man’s wrists, but they left Cam’s knife where it was, buried deep in the man’s back. From the way the prisoner was struggling to breathe, Cam’s aim had been truer than the assassin’s, and their attacker had obviously not thought to wear armor.

  “Who sent you?” Donelan’s voice was firm, although what remained of his shirt was soaked with blood.

  The prisoner raised his head, and it was the first good look Cam had gotten at the man’s face. He had the look of the Isencroft hills, and when he spoke, his accent confirmed Cam’s guess. “Death to traitors!” He spat in Donelan’s direction.

  “I’d be careful what you wish for, boy. From where I sit, ’tis treason to fire on your king,” Wilym warned. “Tell us how you knew where we’d hunt, and who helped you, and perhaps one of the Light Faces will take pity on your soul.”

  “You thought you broke us, but we’re stronger than you know,” the would-be assassin boasted, and choked on blood. “We’re everywhere, hidden in plain sight. And we won’t rest until Isencroft remains independent!”

  “Funny way to show your loyalty, trying to kill the king,” Wilym said, prodding the man with the point of his sword.

  Donelan’s eyes narrowed. “You can tell me now, or we can wait until you’re dead. My daughter’s husband is a very powerful summoner. I bet he could get your ghost to tell me what we want to know.”

  “You can try.”

  Donelan and Wilym exchanged a glance that spoke volumes. “Bind him and haul him back to the palace. We’ll let the battle mages have a turn at him, see what they can get from him.”

  “The hunt was a last-minute idea,” Cam said thoughtfully. “How many people knew?”

  The soldiers trussed the prisoner to drag him back to the horses. Wilym and Cam offered their hands to Donelan as the king got to his feet, but Donelan waved them off. “No one but Kellen was with us when the king proposed it last night,” Wilym said thoughtfully.

  “And I’d trust Kellen with my life,” Cam said.

  Wilym nodded. “So would I. After we left the king last night, I spoke to our escorts personally,” he said, with a glance to the soldiers. “We were also alone, and they were quartered for the night.”

  “We saw no one and spoke to no one, sir,” said the guard closest to Wilym.

  Wilym frowned, thinking. “After that, I went down to the stables to see that the horses would be ready, and I spoke to the king’s groom directly.”

  “Were there others about?” Cam asked.

  Wilym shrugged. “It was late. I don’t remember seeing anyone, but someone might have been within earshot. It wasn’t intended to be a secret mission.” He shook his head. “But I didn’t say anything about where we meant to hunt. This fellow didn’t follow us, hoping for a lucky shot. It took some time to set up that deer and make it look convincing, and then to get into position in that tree. Even the guards didn’t know where the king wanted to hunt.”

  Donelan grunted. “I’ve had my eye on this spot for a while. Haven’t told anyone, but I had a feeling that I’d find a good stag here. Wasn’t about to talk about it and have someone beat me to it!”

  “So that means that no one heard it from the king and stored it away for future use,” Wilym said. “That cuts down the suspects.”

  “Did you talk with anyone else?”

  Wilym thought for a moment. “Come to think of it, I went to the armory after that to get the king’s bow. Derry wasn’t there, but his assistant was very helpful.” His eyes widened. “Chatty, in fact. We were talking about where the deer have been plentiful this year, and he told me his favorite spots.” Wilym sighed. “I can’t believe how stupid I was. I told him enough about where we were headed that someone might have figured it out from that. I never thought—”

  “Not your fault, lad, though in the future, I’ll thank you to treat my favorite hunting spots like the state secret they deserve to be,” Donelan said. “I’d trust Derry with my soul, but I don’t know his assistant. Hasn’t been with us much over a year.”

  Cam and Wilym exchanged glances. “We still don’t know if it’s the assistant who betrayed you, or whether he told someone else, who used the information,” Cam said.

  “It makes a short trail to follow. When we get back, I’ll bring him in for questioning. Could be, like you say, that he mentioned it in passing. We’ll find out.” From the look on Wilym’s face, Cam knew the other was blaming himself for the breach.

  Cam nudged their prisoner with the toe of his boot. “Hear that? Whoever your man is inside the palace, we’ll get him.”

  The assassin’s face was pale. From the bluish cast to his skin, Cam wondered whether the man would make it back to the palace. But the glint in his eyes was defiant. “Cut one down, and another will spring up. Isencroft must be free!”

  “Gag him,” Wilym said to the guards, with a nod toward the prisoner. He walked over, knelt next to th
e man, and let his hands hover over the wound as he had done for Donelan. This time, Cam noticed, Wilym kept his eyes open. Wilym jerked the knife clear and the prisoner groaned. For a few minutes, Wilym worked over the wound. “That should keep him from dying before we reach Aberponte. We’ll see if he changes his mind about being helpful. If not, well—”

  “If he isn’t helpful, hang him,” Donelan said. “That’s getting off easy for trying to kill the king. It would serve him right to be drawn and quartered, for losing me my stag!”

  Now that the prisoner realized that death would not spare him imprisonment and interrogation, fear replaced defiance in his eyes. “He’s not kidding about the stag,” Wilym said in a cold voice. “The king takes his hunt very personally. If you want a quick death, and a painless one, you might want to cooperate.” Wilym gave the man a cold smile that was ominous.

  For the first time, the assassin looked uncertain. Though he said nothing as the guards manhandled him toward the horses, Cam would have bet money that Wilym and the mages would get what they needed from the man if it came down to a choice between the gallows or worse.

  “Whoever’s working with him probably isn’t the only traitor inside the palace,” Wilym said to Cam as they moved ahead, out of earshot of the prisoner. They stayed a pace behind the king, with their swords drawn.

  “It’s not necessarily the servants who are disloyal,” Cam said. “It could be anyone they speak to outside the palace, from the woodcutters to their families.”

  Wilym nodded. “Give me a foreign enemy any day. This disloyalty from within is like leprosy. A kingdom can’t stand when no one can trust his fellow countrymen.”

  Even if we can defeat Alvior and his dark summoner, what will the war do to Isencroft? Cam worried. I can see what it’s done to Margolan to unseat Jared. It could take a generation to repair the damage the Divisionists have done. Lady Bright! We haven’t mustered the army yet, but the war’s already begun.