by Helen Lowe
“What in—” Lady Bonamark began, then broke off as a servant began to wail.
“The girl,” Ghiselaine said, and knelt, but Malian was ahead of her, putting out an arm to hold the countess back—because she did not see how the girl’s bare, unmarked hands could have held that cup. The girl’s head was still bowed to her chest and she had not moved or spoken since the cup was knocked aside. Malian hesitated, then slipped off her coat and wrapped it around her hand, before lifting the girl’s chin—but the young body slumped sideways as soon as the cloaked hand touched her.
Mindburned, Malian thought, tilting the girl’s head to stare into the seared, empty eyes: someone must have kept the girl animated until she delivered the cup.
In the background, she was aware of Raven and Kalan arriving at a run. “She’s dead,” she said, spreading her coat to cover the girl’s face while her eyes darted from yard to rooftop, alert for concealed archers. “We need to get Ghis into cover and secure the lodge,” she added sharply. “And send word to the Duke.”
Chapter 31
Tenneward Lodge
“You don’t think Lord Hirluin really sent it, do you?” Audin asked. Kalan thought that he had never seen him look so haggard, not even during the hill fort siege.
Lady Bonamark shook her head. “Highly unlikely, I should think. I can see nothing for your cousin to gain by it, Lord Audin, and a great deal for him to lose.”
They were in the lodge’s library, a room that looked as though it saw little use. But it had heavy wooden doors that could be closed against the uproar in the rest of the house, where the steward and servants were all under guard. Kalan himself had pulled the velvet curtains against the dusk and prying eyes, before returning to the table where Ser Amain, Lady Bonamark’s captain, was seated at his Marklady’s right. Audin sat opposite him, with Kalan around the table to his left, and Malian and Ser Raven on his right.
Kalan sighed inwardly, wishing it could have been Alianor or Girvase at the table instead of him. But Alianor was too tired for this sort of conference, and Girvase wanted to stay close to Alli, so it had been logical to leave them with Ghiselane. Covertly, Kalan glanced at Malian, almost certain that she had managed to conceal Nhenir in the rooms given over to Ghiselaine and her companions. He hadn’t noticed anything obvious, but knew that it would take considerable focus to detect the Helm of Secrecy when it did not choose to be seen. And its presence would give Malian ears into Ghiselaine’s rooms, if ears were needed.
This time, Kalan frowned to himself rather than sighing. He had always disliked the idea that the Shadow Band of Ar, created to fight the fire of poison and daggers in the dark with matching fire, was the best training ground for Malian’s power. But he had to admit that she had served both Emer and Ghiselaine well today.
“The cup must have been warded against Oakward detection.” Kalan shared the thought with Malian. His bond to her was strong enough for him to know that she had heard, although she gave no sign, maintaining Maister Carick’s grave outward demeanor.
“I agree,” Audin was saying, but Kalan, who knew him, could tell how deeply unhappy he was. “Not that I know Hirluin well . . . Yet whoever sent the cup must be close to my uncle’s inner circle, enough to know that we would be stopping here.”
“What I’m wondering,” Ser Amain said, his gaze fixed on Malian, “is why a River scholar could perceive what no one else here did?”
The inevitable question, Kalan thought, seeing the echo of the knight’s query in Audin’s face and Lady Bonamark’s scrutiny. Knowledge of poisons and their antidotes was one of Karn’s arts, of course, but Malian couldn’t tell them that—or what she had already told him, which was that she had seen the dark afterdazzle of the warding spell when the cup caught the light. Right now, though, her expression was all Maister Carick, a mix of diffidence and apology.
“On the River,” she said, “poison is widely used by assassins sworn to the Ijiri School. So detecting their use is taught as well, and was part of my study in Ar—and the wine in the cup was heavily spiced, a favorite disguise of River poisoners.”
“Is that who you suspect here?” Lady Bonamark asked. “River assassins?”
Malian shook her head. “It’s not a River poison. It was only the heavy spice that alerted me. From my brief study of the cup I would guess Ishnapuri—or possibly something originating from the great deserts. But I will have to test it to be sure.”
She’s so calm, Kalan thought—maintaining that diffident exterior with everyone.
Ser Amain pursed his lips. “Ishnapur, you say? A group of their merchants traveled through Emer, early in the spring.”
“An Ishnapuri poison does not mean that citizens of Ishnapur brought it here.” Malian’s tone remained that of the River scholar who has some knowledge, but does not wish to instruct. “One only needs access to those who trade in such things.”
“But whoever it is,” Audin said slowly, “will almost certainly have had watchers here, waiting to report back.”
“Who will have seen you act,” Kalan observed to Malian, letting his unhappiness on that score color his mindtone.
“Yes,” Malian said, and he knew that she was answering both observations.
“And may well strike again before anyone can reach us from Caer Argent.” Lady Bonamark looked from Ser Amain to Raven. “Are we prepared for that?”
Both knights nodded, and the next few moments were a discussion of resources and their disposition—keeping the Tenneward servants under guard in one area, and restricting their own use of the lodge to its most defensible wing. Watches, it was agreed, would be kept throughout the night, with one of the two knights always awake and in command at all times.
“Although there’s still that business of the girl,” Ser Amain said finally. “Looking alive, but really being dead or the next best thing to it—that’s the stuff of Oakward fables.”
“Not what we expect to encounter in our everyday world,” Lady Bonamark agreed, standing up. “We shall have to hope that keen eyes and sharp steel are enough to get us through.” But there was no mistaking the uneasiness in her voice.
“I’ve got a psychic ward up around this part of the lodge,” Girvase told Kalan, when he reached the landing of the wing they had decided was most defensible. Malian was still in the library, studying the cup; Lady Bonamark had retired to her rooms with her own ladies; and Ser Amain and Ser Raven were discussing watch details in the hall below. “Nothing’s touched it yet.”
Kalan peered out the lead-paned window to where the lingering dusk had finally become fully dark, with a fine mist drifting off the river. He let his mind touch Girvase’s shield, but could only make out night sounds: the scampering of mice beneath a hedgerow and the stealthy passage of a fox. “Nothing may happen,” he said finally. “But we should plan otherwise.”
Girvase nodded. “I wish Lord Falk had come, or Erron.”
I wonder why they didn’t? Kalan asked himself. The Northern March was fragile, and the Oakward was always located at the point of greatest danger from the use or abuse of magic, but still . . . Are we bait? Kalan wondered. Or is this a test, either for us or for Malian? He shivered, thinking that if it was, then the Oakward was gambling high, with Ghiselaine and the peace of Emer at stake.
“Audin’s gone in to see Ghis,” Girvase told him, “but Ado’s outside the door. Jarna and Raher are watching the entrance to the adjoining wing.”
“Ser Raven wants someone on both the inside and outside of the girls’ door,” Kalan replied, “so we’re going to be stretched.” He turned back to the stairwell as the library door opened, and a moment later Ser Raven and Malian came up the stairs together, while Ser Amain’s footsteps retreated across the hall. Kalan nodded to Girvase and followed Malian and Ser Raven into the main chamber set aside for Ghiselaine’s use. Audin was by the window, looking drawn, while Ghiselaine sat by the fire, the fall of her hair shielding her face. Ilaise stood behind her chair, and Alianor sat on a stool opposit
e, her chin propped on her hands. Both damosels looked around as the door opened, an identical wariness in their expressions.
Ghiselaine turned as well, then straightened and stood up. “Maister Carick,” she said, extending both hands to Malian, “You saved my life, I believe. But not just my life. If what was done to that poor child is any indication, my death, once I took the cup, would have been painful—but not slow.”
Kalan wondered if anyone else in the room caught Malian’s slight hesitation before she spoke. “There was a compulsion on it,” she said then, as if understanding that Ghiselaine needed to hear the truth. “You could not have put the chalice down, and once you held it you would have wanted to drink, despite whatever warning others cried out.”
“And the liquid?” Audin asked harshly.
Malian met his eyes. “We all saw it on the stones.”
“From now on, all your food must be checked before you eat.” Alianor sounded as exhausted as she looked. “We must suspect everyone, Ghis.”
“How long will it go on?” Ghiselaine whispered. “Will it end with the formal betrothal ceremony? Or the marriage? Or only with my death?” She pressed her hands to her face and spoke through them, her voice muffled. “And there’s no way back. Renouncing the marriage would tear Emer as far apart as my death by murder, or even misadventure.” She took her hands away and looked from Alianor to Audin. “Can we assume that division is the purpose, rather than simply my death—that this is not just some long held grudge against Ormond?”
“Not when it would do such damage to Emer,” the Duke’s nephew replied grimly.
“You reason as a sane man,” Raven pointed out, from where he had remained by the door. “Someone consumed by the desire for revenge may not see anything beyond the purpose that eats away until it is fulfilled.”
They were all silent, and the crackle of flames from the hearth grew loud in the pause. “Still,” Kalan said finally, “division seems most likely.” He wondered if Malian, too, was thinking of the Swarm and what the heralds had told them of events in Ij during the early spring. And there were plenty of old enmities for Darkswarm agents to draw on, lying just below the surface of a newly unified Emer. “We don’t know what alliances have been made or what drives them. But if we lose you, Ghis, we lose the game.” He narrowed his eyes, calculating odds. “I’m picking, though, that every step you can get through—the formal betrothal, the marriage—will see you safer.”
“When you have a child that is heir equally to Caer Argent and Ormond,” Audin said, sounding as though every word cost him considerable effort, “the threat may fade completely.”
Ghiselaine frowned at him, her lower lip caught between her teeth. “But pass to my child?”
No one said anything—because, Kalan thought, that risk could not be ruled out, depending on who had been behind the cup. In the end, it was Alianor who spoke. “The risk will never completely fade, but the longer you and Lord Hirluin are together, and once you have children . . .” The damosel shrugged. “I believe many more people will see the Duke’s hope of a lasting peace and want it for themselves.”
Ghiselaine continued to frown, then shook her head as if to clear it. “Alli, look at you. You need to rest.”
The dark-haired damosel nodded. “We all do. You, too, Ghis. But I think we should have two people awake at all times—the guard and one other.” Someone to watch the watcher, Kalan guessed, as Alianor’s gaze shifted to Malian. “Maister Carick, would you stay here in the outer room and share the watch with Ilaise?”
Ser Raven’s gaze went to Malian as well, but he did not dispute Alianor’s plan. “Hamar, you take first guard here,” was all he said. “Lord Audin will relieve you, and Girvase can take the final watch.”
So we all know who should be in here and when, Kalan thought, although it won’t help much if there’s another facestealer in our midst. He recalled Malisande’s dead face again, and Maister Gervon’s mad eyes, and felt repulsion twist his gut. But he nodded with the rest, and Ser Raven left, taking Audin with him.
Kalan watched with a certain degree of amusement as Ilaise bought out quilts from the adjoining room for herself and Malian, before entering the second chamber himself—ostensibly to check the window catches, but really to set additional wards over both the casement and the room. Once he returned to the main chamber, careful to leave the adjoining door half open, Kalan took up Ser Raven’s former station by the door. Malian was lying on the window seat with her hands behind her head, while Ilaise snuffed out the candles one by one.
When she was done, the damosel settled down in front of the fire and wrapped herself in a quilt. She lay quite still for a short time then sat up, looking at Kalan with an expression that he could see quite clearly through the shadows but found difficult to read. “D’you think Lord Hirluin really sent the cup and someone took advantage of that?” she asked him. “Or was it all just a ploy?”
Kalan shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Ilaise sighed. “It seemed such a pretty gesture, like Lady Bonamark said. And I saw Lord Hirluin once, before I went to Normarch. He’s young, still, and handsome. Good-natured, too, my mother said.” Ilaise sighed again. “Like Audin. Not that it would matter if he wasn’t. Even if he had a bad temper or a mouth full of rotten teeth, still Ghiselaine must make this marriage and smile for the world.”
Malian spoke from the window seat. “I thought, when I first came to Normarch, that you didn’t like her.”
Ilaise shifted under the blanket. “I thought I didn’t. My family’s holdings are in Lyonmark, on Ormond’s western border, so there’s the traditional enmity. And Ghis is so beautiful and everyone likes her—I told myself it was because she was going to be Duchess and they were just currying favor. I knew it wasn’t true, but I still thought it.”
“Until the ambush and flight to The Leas,” Malian said.
The yellow head nodded. “And now this. They’ll make her into little better than a prisoner, just to keep her alive.”
Perhaps she is anyway, Kalan thought: a hostage for Ormond’s good behavior, even though the warfare ended before she was born. A log snapped in the grate, sending up sparks, and Ilaise shrugged.
“Mind you, if my family requires it I may have to make the same sort of marriage—one where it won’t really matter what I want. Love is just for songs and the courtly tales, although we all like to pretend.”
Kalan’s thoughts went instantly to Audin—and then to Jarna, remembering the first time he had seen her, a rawboned girl trying to look brave, perched on top of one great horse and leading another. He had felt sorry for her then, with Ser Bartrand determined to make her pay in sweat and bruises, broken bones, even, for her grandfather’s decision to send her to Normarch. A rush of fellow feeling for anyone thrust into an unwelcome life had followed—together with his conscious decision to befriend her, knowing that Audin would agree and that the rest of the squires would follow their lead. Kalan found it more difficult to pinpoint when the nature of his friendship with Jarna had changed, but sometime over this past winter camaraderie had flowered from the usual storytelling and jokes around the squires’ fire, into something more.
A springtime love, Kalan thought now. It was one of the oldest traditions in the knightly history of Emer, with a cycle of songs composed around both the tradition and some of the more famous lovers. He tried to imagine either the tradition or the songs transported to the Derai Wall, and failed. He could not help grinning, though, just thinking about it—although his grin faded when he reflected how much he did not want to return to the Derai world. I don’t belong there either, Kalan thought restlessly, any more than an Emerian lament for springtime love dues.
He must have moved, because he felt the cool, smoky touch of Malian’s eyes through the firelit dark, although she did not speak. It will be the same for her as for Ghiselaine, he thought, once she returns to the Wall and reclaims her place as Heir of Night. With so few of Night’s Blood left, she will have to marry
to strengthen her House’s position in the Derai Alliance—and the choice of bridegroom will come down to bloodlines, as well as who can bring the most spears to the battlefront, or votes to the council table.
Assuming, he reflected grimly, that she can reclaim her position as Heir: without followers at her back, or the arms of Yorindesarinen, her chances are not particularly good. And even if the Lost will follow her . . . Kalan had to stop himself from shaking his head, because they would still be priest-kind in a world that had cast them out. As I will be, too, he added grimly.
Ilaise, he saw, was still watching him through the gloom. “Springtime love,” she said softly, as though her thoughts had marched with his. “But already it’s Midsummer.”
Kalan felt the tug of her uncharacteristic melancholy—the feeling that the good times had already slipped away. Maybe they have, he thought, still grim, but not if I can help it. “Go to sleep, Illy,” he said gently. “I can’t keep watch if you’re talking to me.”
The Ilaise from before The Leas would have tossed her head and pouted, but now she simply nodded and lay back down, pulling the quilt almost over her head. Kalan tested the edge of his psychic shield again, extending it beyond the walls of the lodge. The mist was growing thicker as the night cooled, lying in thick banks across the grounds and surrounding fields. Inside the house, all was dark and quiet as well, although Kalan’s keen ears caught suppressed sobbing from the hall where the Tenneward retainers were being held. A woman, he thought, concentrating briefly: a relative of the dead girl, he supposed—and wanted to curse those who would use an innocent so ruthlessly.
He focused on Malian instead, her face turned to look out the window. “Has your seeking found anything?” he asked, and saw the slightest shake of her head: no.
Maybe, Kalan thought, we’ll be all right after all. Almost immediately, he felt sleepy from the long day’s ride on top of three weeks steady travel, followed by the tension and fear surrounding the poisoned cup. He concentrated on keeping his eyes open, as wary of the waking visions of the Gate of Dreams as he was of falling asleep while on guard. To keep himself alert, he checked the bounds of his shield again—and thought he heard a hound bay, somewhere beyond the banks of mist.
