by Kate Jacoby
“One follows the other, does it not?” The words were out before Finnlay could stop them.
Robert glanced at him but said nothing. Instead he turned his attention to Finnlay’s horse. He bent down to examine the injured hoof, running a sure hand up the leg and chest of the animal to give it a companionable slap on the neck. He then turned back to Finnlay, his expression a little gentler, but not yet compromising. “You look well, brother. How has life been treating you?”
There was no suggestion of mockery in Robert’s tone but there was something in his eyes. Finnlay answered anyway. “Fine. Everything is fine, really.”
“And mother? How is she?”
“I saw her at Saint Hilary’s a month ago and she was in perfect health.”
That elicited a small smile from Robert. He nodded. “And what about the rest of the family? Uncle Oliver? Have you seen him?”
“Not recently. Everyone is fine, like I said. Except...” Finnlay paused and studied Robert for a moment. He’d changed little over the last three years. His hair was longer, certainly; he was more tanned and perhaps a little leaner—but it was the gaze buried within those sea-green eyes which made Finnlay pause. There was something ... wrong here but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
“Except?” Robert prompted.
Now that it came to it, what exactly was Finnlay to say? It seemed they could talk—which was a start—but talking to Robert about anything important had always been difficult. For one thing, Robert never seemed to take anything seriously—and on the odd occasions when he did, it was impossible to predict how he would react.
Taking a deep breath, Finnlay moved closer and said, “Robert, we need to talk.”
“About what?” Robert had turned to the packhorse and pulled a flask from one of the bags. “How did you know I was back?”
Finnlay watched him warily. “How do you think?”
A smile played about his brother’s face for a moment. “Don’t tell me you’ve been practising. Oh, Finn, if only I’d known.”
“But you did know. You started shielding almost the moment you arrived.”
“Did I?” Robert pulled the stopper out of the flask and held it out to him. “The last of the Rennish ale. Would you like some?”
Finnlay stared at the flask. Yes, something wasn’t right here. Robert was behaving as though he’d never been away—as though he’d seen Finnlay only last week. He was acting as if he’d never promised never to return to Lusara.
Taking the flask, Finnlay swallowed the bitter liquid, using the time to get his thoughts back in order. Regardless of what his brother was thinking, there were still important matters to discuss. There would be time to work out what was wrong later.
Finnlay handed the flask back and tried again. “Robert, I have to tell you something.”
“Oh?”
“It’s about Marcus, Robert. I’m sorry, but he’s dead.”
Robert froze in the act of taking a drink from the flask. Slowly he lowered it from his mouth and closed his eyes.
Micah came around the horses and stood between them. “When? How?”
“Almost two weeks ago, from a fever. He fell ill then three days later he was gone.”
“Mineah grant him peace,” Micah whispered.
“Aye,” Robert looked back at Finnlay. “And Ayn? Have you seen her? How is she?”
“I don’t really know. She sent me a message. She seemed to be taking it well.”
“Aye, she would.” Robert turned away, his head lowered.
Finnlay glanced at Micah then, unable to help himself, blurted, “Robert, there’s to be a Gathering, to choose a successor to Marcus. You must come.”
Robert kept walking until he reached the fallen log. There he sat, resting his elbows on his knees. “I know what you’re about to say, Finn. I don’t want to discuss it again.”
“But you know what will happen if you don’t...”
“I said I don’t want to discuss it,” Robert interrupted wearily. “If you’ve exerted yourself to find me only to have an argument, then I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”
Finnlay stared at him. Suddenly, all his calm, all his good intentions—all the peace of the last three years drained away—and was instantly replaced by the same blinding anger which had always dominated their relationship. Anger from Finnlay and a flat calm from Robert.
He strode forward, his heart racing. “I don’t believe it! After three years you still care so little?” He spat the words out, daring his brother to respond.
And Robert did. He glanced up from his seat and pinned his younger brother with a gaze of steel. “Then you haven’t changed, have you? For a moment there, I allowed myself to believe the impossible. Still, you have your heart fixed on an argument, brother. By all means, don’t let me stop you.”
Finnlay couldn’t hold the gaze and looked away. He saw Micah take up the horses’ leads and move them away from the stream. As always, Micah was either unconcerned or unaffected by the obvious rift between the brothers. For some reason, Finnlay found that comforting—just enough for him to get a hold on his fury. When he finally turned back to Robert, his anger was under control—mostly.
“You know the Enclave needs you, Robert,” Finnlay began, still determined to have his say. “And with Marcus gone, they need direction—your direction. You must Stand the Circle and take his place.”
“I must?” Robert whispered.
“By the gods, yes! How long is this to go on?” Finnlay shook his head, totally bewildered. There was no fight in Robert at all! With growing fear, he continued insistently, urgently, “While you still had a seat on the Council we could understand the good you could do—if not the means by which you chose to do it. And when Berenice died it was understandable. But it’s been three years, Robert. How long will you keep up this...” Finnlay’s voice trailed off, words failing him at the last.
“What?” Robert queried softly, “This charade?”
Finnlay couldn’t speak. This was too close to the truth and despite his best resolutions, he found he couldn’t actually come out with the words.
Robert shook his head sadly, taking the silence for an answer. Finnlay inwardly kicked himself for his stupidity.
“The Enclave will survive without me,” Robert added, not looking at his brother. “It has before and it will again. It doesn’t need me, nor the trouble I would bring it.”
“I’m not the only one who wants you there. Ayn said that Marcus’s last words were of you. He wanted you to take his place.”
Robert raised his eyebrows in self-mockery. “It must have been the fever.”
“Damn it, Robert, how can you joke about it? Those people need you. You’re the most powerful of us all but all you can do is sit there making jokes and somehow remain untouched by it all. You know, if you weren’t my brother ...”
“Yes?” Robert stood and carefully replaced the stopper in the flask.
“If you weren’t my brother I would say you had ceased to care at all!”
Robert took a long time to reply. He shook his head and a small smile softened his face. He came closer and placed a hand on Finnlay’s shoulder. “What purpose is there in caring about things I cannot change? We’re travelling a little further before we stop for the night. If you like, you can take the pack horse and come with us. It won’t take a moment to change the saddle over. If not?” He shrugged and dropped his hand, “then I suppose I will see you at Dunlorn for the winter. I hope that’s ...”
Robert’s voice trailed off and Finnlay frowned. “What is it?” Danger?
The answer was immediate. The forest around them began to rustle and seconds later they were surrounded by a squad of mounted soldiers. They wore no identifiable blaze but the drawn swords and the speed of the ambush meant only one thing. Trouble.
Instinctively, Finnlay watched Robert out of the corner of his eye. His brother appeared relaxed and unruffled, his hands held loosely at his sides. He made no move towards his sword
but that meant nothing. Robert could move very fast when he needed to.
One soldier detached himself from the group and rode forward. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
Robert shrugged, “Just travellers, sergeant. Nothing more.”
“Travellers, eh? From where? What’s your name?”
“Does it matter who we are?”
The sergeant obviously didn’t like that at all. He tugged his reins and with a nod to his men, grunted, “Bring them.”
Disarmed and bound, they were led on foot through the forest and down a steep track until they reached a valley. In the centre was the ruin of a stone building surrounded by tents, fires and at least five dozen more soldiers. Finnlay watched Robert, waiting for some sign that he was about to move. But there was no opportunity, no opening, and even Micah looked worried.
As they approached the tents, another more senior soldier strode up to them. The sergeant gave his report to the captain, who looked the captives up and down.
“Where did you find them?”
“Over the ridge, sir. They claim they are just travellers.”
“I see.” The captain nodded then turned to Robert. “Who are you?”
Finnlay clenched his fists, hoping to warn Robert against giving his name. There was no way to guess what would happen if these men found out his brother’s identity. There were too many variables. Robert had been gone so long he would have no idea whether these men were friends or foe. And if they were foe?
Robert took in the makeshift camp then turned back to the captain. “My name is Douglas. Robert Douglas.”
A tiny frown creased the young captain’s brow. “Douglas?” For a moment he appeared to struggle with his memory—then abruptly his eyes widened. “My lord! I apologize if my men mistreated you. Sergeant, get rid of those bonds. If you will come with me, my lord? His lordship will be happy to see you.”
“Oh?” Robert shot a perplexed look at Finnlay before adding, “And who is your master?”
The captain smiled and drew them across the compound, “Why Baron Blair, of course!”
Blair met them outside his tent and instantly clapped his hands on Robert’s shoulders. With a bellow of laughter he demanded, “By the gods, Robert, what are you doing back? When did you arrive? And Finnlay? I haven’t seen you for months! But how...” He paused with a glance at the captain who waited behind them. The man quickly explained and Blair gave a small cough and tugged at his shaggy beard. “Sorry about that, Robert. We’ve ... er, had a bit of trouble with a band of raiders. My men have orders to bring in anyone looking suspicious. Come inside, close by the fire. You must be frozen!”
Inside the tent was a huge brazier glowing with welcome warmth, a long table, a rug on the floor and a scattering of chairs. Blair poured them all wine, but kept throwing puzzled glances in Robert’s direction. Finnlay drew Micah close to the fire but Robert stayed by the table, his eyes on Blair.
“I tell you, Robert, it will take me days to get over the shock of seeing you again. That’s not to say I’m not glad to see you—but where have you been the last three years?”
“Here and there,” Robert replied with a shrug, then smiled to soften the evasion.
“To be honest, I never thought I’d see you back here. Not after. ..”
“No,” Robert replied, cutting Blair off. “Nor did I.”
At that moment, Finnlay’s attention was caught by a new arrival. Flowing white hair, broad muscled shoulders and a gaze that could split oak.
“Uncle Oliver!” Finnlay blurted, at once delighted and bewildered.
In response, Robert turned around to be caught up in a rough bearhug. “Robert! It’s so good to see you! We just heard you were here. But I don’t understand. I thought you’d quit Lusara for good.”
Despite his obvious shock, Robert managed a smile, “I can’t say I expected to see you here either.”
Finnlay greeted his uncle, unable to disagree with his brother. That Blair should be here with his men looking for raiders was no real surprise—that Oliver Sinclair was with him, was. Finnlay stepped back to the fire and watched the man who had, over the years, become almost a second father to him and Robert. Oliver Sinclair had been many things in his long life—a soldier, King’s councillor, battle hero—not to mention Duke of Haddon and the older brother of Finnlay’s mother. Finnlay’s earliest memories held images of this quiet, wise old man, whose hair seemed always to have been the purest white. Over the years he had done much to fill the place of their lost father and in some respects, they had filled the place of the children Oliver had never had.
“A touching reunion,” came a dry comment from the door. Finnlay glanced up and recognized the pinched, sallow face and narrow grey gaze of Roy Seaton. Great, this was just what they needed.
But Robert was talking to Oliver and only glanced a greeting in Seaton’s direction. “You’re a long way from home, Uncle. My mother is well, I hope?”
Oliver nodded with enthusiasm. “She is indeed—though I haven’t seen her myself since the spring. You know how hard it is to get to that damned abbey, Robert. She’ll be delighted to see you back, safe and sound, my boy. I’m surprised she didn’t write and tell me you were on your way.”
“That would have been difficult—since she didn’t know.” Robert paused, glancing at Blair but avoiding Finnlay’s eyes. “In fact, nobody knows.”
An awkward silence descended on the room. Finnlay was tempted to fill it with some casual comment but there was an undercurrent to the silence he found fascinating. Something in the way Blair glanced at Seaton—and Oliver avoided them both. Finnlay looked to see if Robert had noticed, but his brother’s face was typically shuttered. After a moment, Blair picked up the wine jug and began refilling their cups. As he did so, Oliver sank into a chair close to the fire, his eyes on his eldest nephew.
“Are you saying you’ve come back in secret?”
Robert shook his head. “No, not at all. I see no point in secrecy. I’m not wanted for any crimes. There’s no warrant out for me—unless something has transpired in my absence?” He cast a questioning look at Blair, who shook his head.
Seaton strode across the room and helped himself to some wine. He grunted, “I’ll dare say there are a few who will not be as welcoming of your return, Dunlorn. Not that I would take any notice of that. These days the usurper’s council is made up of either traitors or slavering cronies. I wouldn’t give tuppence for the lot of them!”
“Hold your tongue, Seaton,” Oliver chided gently. “My nephew has been away a long time. I’m sure he has other things on his mind than your fine opinions.”
“My apologies, Your Grace, I meant no insult,” Seaton bowed stiffly but his face betrayed his real thoughts.
“No insult was taken,” Robert replied with a quick glance at his uncle. “But I’m curious—your calling the King a usurper?”
Seaton raised his eyebrows defensively. “Well, he is—it’s a fact we all acknowledge—even Selar himself. What of it?”
“Well, nothing really,” Robert’s tone was casual. “It’s just that you never used to call him that. I can’t help wondering what has changed.”
“Oh, please, Robert,” Blair raised his hands in appeal, “don’t let him get started.”
“Forgive me,” Robert smiled, “but I have a lot of catching up to do.”
Seaton snorted in derision. “That’s what you get for turning your back on your country and your people when they most need you. I’m surprised you’re even asking the question—or that you bothered to return at all!”
“Seaton!” Finnlay took a step across the room, “there is no need for—”
“What?” Seaton snapped, “Disrespect? Well, tell me, Finnlay, how am I supposed to respect a man like your noble brother, here? He was once our sole voice to the King—our single representative on the council and the one man who was capable of standing up to that fool of a Guilde Proctor. A battle hero, even, and the beloved champion of the people
. Where should respect lie when that same man then just walks away? A man who, the moment when things begin to get really difficult, just runs in the opposite direction? By Mineah’s teeth, he didn’t even tell us why he went!”
Finnlay opened his mouth, trying desperately to control his fury. But his brother took a deep breath and murmured, “Leave it, Finn.”
Robert then turned a steady gaze on Seaton, who was frozen under that intense scrutiny. Finnlay almost felt sorry for the poor fool. Many men before him had been rooted to the spot by that same gaze and more than a few of them had felt just as intimidated as Seaton obviously did now. It was a strange talent Robert had, and one he used unconsciously. It made men both admire and fear him.
Robert paused as though choosing his words with care. When he spoke it was with his usual even tone, untainted by anger at Seaton’s attitude. But then again, Robert never did get angry at anything. “Do you think my staying in Lusara would have helped? Do you really think that if I’d stayed you would not have lost those lands outside Emaine?” He skilfully ignored the sharp look he got from his uncle and continued, “I doubt I would have had any effect on that dispute.”
“And what do you know about it?” Seaton blustered. “You’ve been away for three years!”
Robert shrugged. “I still heard things. As for the rest, my reasons for leaving were between the King and myself and not the business of anyone else. You’re entirely within your rights to be angry at what happened to your lands but please—don’t lay the blame at my feet.”
“So,” Seaton drew the word out, “you won’t stand against him. I might have known you’d turn your back on us again.”
“As you have so rightly pointed out, I have been away. If you wish to blame me for what happened, then by all means go ahead, if it makes you feel better. I’ve been held to account for many worse things in my time. But understand this: I am not a part of your argument and never will be. But even if I was, I swore an oath of allegiance to Selar when I joined his council and nothing—neither your anger nor your contempt—will ever convince me to break that oath.”
