The drawing room had been set up overnight for use as a war council, with a large table manoeuvred in from the adjacent banquet hall and covered with a map of the castle, upon which they were only just beginning to mark out the enemy positions and troop numbers. Information remained scarce. The hearth in the near wall crackled with a recently lit fire, and the room still carried a distinct chill made colder by the wet hair brushing against his neck.
The door in the far wall opened, and Ellaeva came in, escorted by Everard. He must have brought her via the grand stair and through the banqueting hall. Her gaze went straight to the maps, and she crossed between two elegant armchairs to stare down at them.
Lyram nodded for Everard to leave. As the door closed, he joined the priestess at the table. Gone were her soaked robes, replaced with a dry set likely on loan from the cloister. A sword hung from her hip—the unknown narrow package? The weapon gleamed silver in the soft morning light streaming through the northern windows overlooking the courtyard, though no blade would be made of such a soft metal. Ruby red eyes glinted from the head of a dragon shaped into the hilt.
“Ahura’s blade.”
At the soft curse of surprise, Ellaeva gave off her examination of the maps and looked at him. Her hair, drying in the heat of the blazing fire, crackled around her head like a midnight halo. She followed his gaze to the sword and laid one hand over it, concealing the dragon formed from the curled metal that made the hilt.
“Yes, it is,” she said. “I should have known you for Lord Lyram Aharris at the gate.”
When she reached out with one finger, he flinched before forcing himself to stillness. Again, her face tightened fractionally. Suppressed annoyance? Hurt, perhaps? The latter seemed less likely. She appeared the type with no patience for fools though.
Her finger brushed the hilt of his own sword, the gaping jaws of the dragon in the basket hilt, grasping a ruby. On her own blade, an almost identical dragon with tiny ruby eyes held a jet stone. Obsidian, perhaps, except for some hint of light in its depths.
“The just dragon,” she said. “A long time ago, the Aharrises were closely aligned with the Order of Ahura. Both stand for justice.”
She pulled her hand away, and he glimpsed something dark on its back before she withdrew into the copious folds of her robe. Another dragon? It was there and gone too fast.
Ellaeva paced around the table, studying the map and its scant pins and markers with an avid gaze. She had a stillness to her, the patient inevitability of a predator. No, not even a predator—something that knew it could outwait you, no matter what. Time. Nature.
Death.
He shivered. “May I ask why you are here?”
She turned that dead gaze on him, and he fought the urge to step backwards. A moment only, and the unnatural quality faded from her, leaving only a stern young woman with crazed hair. She circled the rest of the way around the long table, moving with the same loose stride he’d seen at tournaments, the kind the very best swordsmen sported, the ones born with a blade in their hand. How young did she start her training?
“Our world hurtles into the shadows. It is why I was called, to make sure we veer away from that path. Here, in this place, the world stands in peril, and it involves you.”
He tried to swallow, but his mouth had dried, and he couldn’t find enough moisture to speak.
A soft knock at the door presaged the entry of a servant, laden down with a tray of food. Another followed, carrying wine and tea. Lyram took a goblet from the passing tray and sipped the hot spiced wine, though his appetite had fled.
The door closed behind the servants with a soft click. Ellaeva regarded the food, lifting the covers to study the contents of the plates.
“It involves me?” Lyram nursed the goblet in his cold fingers and edged closer to the hearth, as if mere fire could dispel the chill caused by knowing a goddess had an interest in him.
She shrugged and pulled a plate off the tray. “The goddess does not tell me everything, but she sent me a premonition, making it clear you are important in some way.”
“But what way? I’m not so important that I deserve your attention.” He scratched his lengthening beard. Could this conflict here, at this castle, somehow spread to the other kingdoms? Was he somehow to be responsible for starting a continental war? If Velena took the blame for this siege, the old border wars would re-ignite. If Drault was at all implicated, civil turmoil could result. The Tembrans might become embroiled because of his marriage to Zaheva. And there his creativity failed him. He took a long draught of the hot wine, feeling suddenly altogether too sober after his wild morning ride for a conversation like this.
“I have no idea.” She shrugged again, as if to indicate she didn’t care, and shoved a forkful of food in her mouth. “What is important for me is to make sure you live, and remain free. No one must be allowed to remove you from this playing board, or to control your actions.”
“Thanks,’ he said, his voice dry. “It does a man’s self-esteem wonders to be referred to by a woman as a playing piece.”
She raked him with a dark, measuring gaze, and he shivered. The contrast with Zaheva couldn’t be starker. Where his wife had been joyous and carefree, Ellaeva was sombre as a tombstone, though she radiated the same indomitable will.
What else can I expect from a girl raised by the priestesses?
The thought gave him a sobering glimpse into her past—a little girl, alone in the halls of death. He frowned, all mirth wrung from him in an instant.
“The defences are strong,” she said. “A shame the outer wall is indefensible, but it still limits their approach. They must remain outside except when attacking, or else they come within range of your archers. You have a fletcher?”
Lyram nodded. “And we’re well-provisioned, food and arms both, with a well inside the walls. We also have a smith, in addition to the fletcher, and a few cattle in the stable. No horses though. We lost the last when I rescued you.”
“No matter. The fletcher is good news. They’ll be forced to camp out here, beyond arrow range.” Her finger swept the map beyond the outer wall. “And short of climbing the wall, a slow and laborious exercise, they must approach through the old gate, which is a bottleneck. Only five abreast, unless I miss my guess. They cannot hope to mount a serious attack against any wall except the front gate, which is well-fortified by the double tower, and you have destroyed the bridge.”
“You’ve a good eye.”
“A well-trained eye.” She measured off distances with her fingers. “As it should be. I was trained in the art of war from the age of five.”
Another horrifying glimpse into her past—a small girl labouring over the journals and war plans of the greatest generals in history. He knew the contents of those books from his own studies, and his stomach clenched. No wonder she was so grim.
“Why did you appear in the middle of a battlefield?” The words popped out unexpectedly in his moment of unease. What was he thinking, questioning Ciotach an Bhais?
But she didn’t even glance up, only touched her sword. “An unfortunate occurrence. The resonance of the blade of the goddess interferes with much magic, even some of my own. Even wrapped, spelled and sealed, I’m afraid. Not to mention the altar of Ahura. Caisteal Aingeal is not an easy place to travel to by supernatural means.”
A pile of pins and markers lay on the side of the table, and she began to place them, marking out the enemy positions.
“What little I saw,” she said, almost apologetic. “They are not so numerous, and the castle is strong. We should hold out until help comes.”
“Two thousand, my report said. My man died obtaining that information.” At the recollection, his stomach twisted again. “And help might not be coming. We sent messengers to the king and the border castles, if they still stand, but too late. All but one was slain, and he was wounded. Even if he makes it..., it depends who receives the missive. If the prince intercepts it..., I expect it will never reach the king.”
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She swivelled. Her expression was blank, but tiny changes in her face still betrayed some of her thoughts. A flicker of an eye betrayed surprise. “Your prince would leave you to die?”
“What?” The words hit him like a fist to the gut, and he scrambled to regain his poise. “Do you mean Drault isn’t behind this? Who else wants me dead?”
She pursed her lips. “I know nothing of Prince Drault’s intentions towards you. Why do you believe he wants you dead?”
“Because I stand to inherit the throne if he dies. Well, my father does, but it’s even odds whether he or Alagondar lives longer. More than likely if Drault died, I would be the next king, and most people account me a nicer fellow. That kind of plays on his insecurities.” He gripped the hilt of his sword to stop the hand trembling. Was he wrong then? Was the army unconnected to the prince? Drault had manoeuvred him out to this insignificant castle and forced him into a position where he couldn’t defend his honour, but perhaps that was enough, just to get him out of court so his political influence might wither and die. Was Everard right after all?
“You have designs on the throne?” she asked.
“What? No! Who else wants me dead, damn you?”
“One should not call on the powers of damnation so lightly,” she said, her voice soft. “Rahmyr wants you out of the way.”
“Rahmyr?” He swallowed the lump in his throat, snorting contemptuously to cover the cold ball of fear in his gut, and scrubbed his suddenly sweaty palms against his trews. One of the black gods, and one of only two for which he knew the name. The other black gods, however many their number, were little known or rarely mentioned outside the temples. Rahmyr and her followers were arguably the least of them. Fools—albeit, dangerous fools—trying to end the world, and themselves with it. And for what? He took another long draught of wine and got a mouthful of the dregs. Sputtering, he put the goblet down. “Another plot to destroy the world?”
Ellaeva cut her eyes at him, and her lower lip curled briefly.
“Rahmyr does not desire death. That is the domain of her sister, Ahura. What Rahmyr wants is decay. It is not the destruction of the world we would witness, but a stagnation of society, a stalling, an end to change, and to progress.” She turned back to the table and placed another pin, this one bearing a red flag. “They have siege engines. Small ones, but still.”
Lyram dropped into the burgundy velvet seat of the nearest chair. Rahmyr. A god. A black god, at that, and one who made Ahura appear playful as a kitten. A god wants me removed? The notion seemed incredible. The notion was frightening. And yet Ellaeva had tossed the idea out like it was all in a day’s work.
“But,” he said, “why would Rahmyr want me out of the way?”
She shrugged without turning around. “I already told you I don’t know,” she said, her voice a touch impatient. “But a Rahmyrrim necromancer is coming for you, or is already here. Here, do you recognise this man?” She reached into her robes and withdrew a folded paper, which she passed to him.
Lyram unfolded it and stared at the smudged charcoal drawing. A man with angular features and an arrogant cast to the tilt of his head, an almost-sneer playing on his lips. “No.”
The flicker of a frown creased her brow before she smoothed it away. “No matter. I would have been surprised if you did. Even if he’s here already, he’ll have taken steps to conceal his face. Perhaps the siege is his play, although it seems unsubtle. Then again, if he can ruin this kingdom by bringing its prince and an important noble into conflict.... It is not so unsubtle when looked at from that perspective.”
Lyram shook his head. Her words left him reeling, like a man struggling to assemble a puzzle in the dark by touch. “So the army isn’t why you came?”
“I knew nothing of it before today.”
A boom reverberated through the room. Lyram jumped, and Ellaeva glanced coolly in the direction of the thundering crash—north, towards the double towers.
“Siege engines,” he said. “Fantastic.”
“Only small ones,” Ellaeva said again. “I’m almost surprised they even have the range to reach us from beyond the outer wall.”
But the soldiers will build bigger ones, no doubt.
“What aid do you intend to render?” he asked. “Are there valkyrs coming? I heard... heard you have many powers, that you don’t feel pain, that you can always see the truth. That trick with the arrows was damn nice.”
Her eyes tightened. “So many questions. I came here for the Rahmyrrim, not a siege, so no, no valkyr. The swordsingers of the goddess are otherwise engaged, attending to the war I left behind to come here. In the matter of the Rahmyrrim, you have my complete support and whatever assistance I can render. As for my powers..., it’s not as simple as you suggest. Some powers belong to my sword, like my ‘trick’ with the arrows. I can see the truth, but the truth is not always what you think. I can also see true in the dark, and I can see the truth of men’s words, but only when I choose to do so. While I certainly feel pain, I can shut it off temporarily. You must understand, these are dangerous powers. The goddess lends me something of herself, and no mortal can long survive the direct touch of a god. I must eke out my resources, or destroy myself.”
While that news struck him like a bucket of icy water to the face, shouts floated up from the courtyard below. Hasty footsteps approached from the banquet hall, and Everard burst in without knocking, his glasses askew.
“Sir, the enemy is attacking.”
Ellaeva hurried after Lyram, following him into the spiral stair that wound up to the south wall from the library adjacent to the drawing room. She stuffed the charcoal picture of her quarry back inside her robes, conscious of Everard trailing behind her.
Winter still hung in the air of the spring morning when she stepped out of the stairwell, a reminder that the snow was only recently melted, but sweat slicked her back beneath her borrowed robes, despite the damp hair pressing chill against the nape of her neck. Ahura was goddess of truth as well as of death, and it was a fine line she walked.
It was true that Rahmyr had some interest here, and her best guess was that it involved Lyram, but the rest was speculation, and none of it was her real reason for being here. Had he accepted everything she’d said? Though he’d appeared shocked, he didn’t seem disbelieving. She searched faces as she passed. Was one of these ordinary-looking people a Rahmyrrim necromancer in disguise? Was she unknowingly within arm’s reach of the man she sought?
As they hurried along the wall to the westernmost gate tower, another crash echoed around the courtyard. The boulder careened away and splashed into the moat. Dark water, which must have only recently been ice, closed over the stone.
Lyram shivered. “Wish it were still snowing.”
Half his deep auburn hair was dry, and clung to his face like a lion’s wild mane, or perhaps the halo of some crazed saint. He pushed it back without any noticeable improvement.
Ellaeva leaned over the battlements to watch the spreading ripples where the stone had sunk out of sight. “I suspect that, upon reflection, you’ll find the thaw just fine, Lord Aharris. An iced-over moat doesn’t offer much defence.”
He grunted and looked sideways at her.
“The catapults are beyond the outer wall,” Everard said. “They’re lobbing stones blind. More are missing than making contact.”
“They’ll figure it out eventually.” Lyram pointed down the road through the waist-high grass, where figures moved in the open gate of the outer wall. “They’ve got eyes on us, but I don’t think they intend to attack right now.”
Ellaeva squinted into the distance.
He reached for his eyeglass, but it wasn’t on his belt. Everard produced the tool from somewhere inside his plaid and passed it to him.
Lyram raised the glass and trained it on the distant figures. There were five watchers on horses. The animal of one circled restlessly, and sunlight glinted off glass or metal. The rider must be surveying the castle through a glass of his ow
n while his horse frisked beneath him. The man yanked savagely on the reins, trying to curb the fractious animal.
Lyram pressed his lips together. “You can always judge a man by how he treats his animals.”
Then he started and fumbled his glass, barely managing to snatch it out of the air before it hit the stones of the guard tower. He pressed it back to his eye, searching.
“Something wrong?” Ellaeva stepped closer.
He jumped again, as if only just noticing her at his elbow. He glanced the other way, towards where Galdron was joining Everard, and licked his lips.
Ellaeva watched him with a cool gaze. He doesn’t want to speak. Because of her? Or his own people? She followed his gaze to the captain and the aide-de-camp. They were whispering together and shooting furtive looks her way. Or... no, it was Lyram they were studying.
He cleared his throat, a faint pinkness staining his cheeks. “One of those men is the commander, or close to him, as he isn’t dressed like the others... and riding a horse fit for a lord at any rate. The enemy flies Velenese colours, and our scout Madden said they looked like Gallowglaighs, but I— I thought I recognised the lord, but when I went to look again, he was gone.”
Though his voice was low, Galdron and Everard exchanged glances.
“Who do you think he is?” she asked.
“Might be. Maybe. I didn’t get that good a look at him, but he might be Bradlin. A viscount, vassal to—”
“Chancellor Traeburhn, Duke of Everglasshey.” She nodded. “Since your disgrace, Traeburhn has been military adviser to the king and overall commander of the army, in additional to his duties as chancellor.”
“Thanks for the reminder.”
Faint heat rose in her cheeks. The aristocracy of every kingdom had been included in her studies, so she was familiar with all their titles and histories, if not always the current incumbents. She hadn’t meant to show off her knowledge though, only to demonstrate she didn’t need him to fill her in on local politics.
In the Company of the Dead (The Sundered Oath Book 1) Page 6
