“You cannot defeat me,” he warned, not knowing why the phrase suddenly imposed itself upon his consciousness; it seemed to have surfaced from a deeper memory. “Balance is with me, as your brethren have discovered to their peril.”
His words gave the assassin pause. He actually seemed to consider Ean’s warning for the briefest instant, but then he shook his head. “Death claims us as Fate wills, Prince of Dannym.” He grinned and held up his blade. “Let us see whom Fortune has graced tonight.”
As if scripted, the two men moved to greet their fate. Ean swung first, and the assassin parried. Their blades clashed, caressed briefly, and separated with a steel song of parting. Thus followed a deadly melody, each blade ringing, harmonizing, sometimes clashing with a dissonance that suspended as they struggled, and resolved as they separated. Percussion came with their heavy footfalls, dancing forward, retreating back; timpani boomed as the fighters spun into walls, cymbals ringing as lamps shattered. Their fighting symphony continued until they reached the end of the hallway where a tall window gleamed darkly, lit by the distant city lights.
The Geshaiwyn got the upper hand as he forced Ean against the window, their blades locked in opposition. Ean gritted his teeth, his entire body rigid behind the effort as the man pushed him harder against the mullioned glass. He heard the metal joinings creak, the glass crackling dangerously with the pressure of their combined force. Ean held, pushing back with all his strength…until at last the assassin’s vigor waned. The prince drew strength from sudden hope and launched himself and the Geshaiwyn away from the window, across the passage. They slammed into the wall together and then staggered across to slam into another, except—
Where once the wall had been was only empty space. Ean twisted as they fell sideways, their blades in a deadly embrace. He landed atop the Geshaiwyn with a gruff exhalation, and both their weapons skittered away.
Ean sprung backwards off the man and gained his feet, bracing himself for more, but the assassin didn’t rise. As the prince’s eyes grew accustomed to the dim room, what had first seemed indistinct grew in substance, and he saw the space was filled with treasures. Silver goblets, jeweled swords, boxes overflowing with jewelry, even elegant clothing—all were jammed in the tiny room.
Ean turned to look behind him at the wall through which they’d fallen. Three steps led up from the stone-tiled room, but where the door should’ve been was only bare wood. He spun back to the Geshaiwyn, who lay upon the floor grinning.
“Where have you brought me?” the prince demanded. If they’d traveled on a node, Ean knew he could be anywhere.
The man chuckled wetly, a dreadful, dying sound. Only then did Ean see the spreading pool beneath him and the shards protruding from his chest. It didn’t stop him from grabbing the assassin by his collar. “Shadow take you, man! Where did you bring us? Get me out of here!”
The assassin just laughed harder, coughing and spitting blood in his mirth.
Ean tried lifting the man to force him to comply, but he was already limp as a dead hare.
The Geshaiwyn looked Ean in the eye. “Who did Fortune favor…after all?” he managed, grinning at the prince with blood-stained teeth. “A halál cask…az…eleje,” he whispered, and then he was gone.
Death is only the beginning.
With a growl of frustration, Ean released the assassin and sat back on his heels. Fortune willing, he was still in the inn and this room was the innkeeper’s store of stolen goods. Surely then the man would return at some point, if not to add to his collection then to admire it. But how long would he have to wait there? As if to rub salt in the wound, the room’s tiny lamp sputtered futilely and then died, pitching Ean into darkness.
***
Alyneri dressed slowly, letting the steam from the bathhouse linger on her damp skin, loving the sensation of her bare feet on the warm stone floor. She couldn’t understand the male aversion to bathing; a bath was a chance to restore, to contemplate and reflect, to sooth both tangled muscles and mind. Perhaps men like Fynnlar don’t relish time alone with their consciences, she thought critically. Certainly in the quiet of a bath, particular types of thoughts gained in volume. Alyneri believed Fynn would do most anything to avoid quiet time with his conscience. But must he really avoid bathing altogether?
Alyneri loved the solitude and silence of the baths. She’d agreed to travel with Ean—not that Morin d’Hain had given her any choice in the matter—but she hadn’t known the price she would pay. For a woman who relished her privacy, she was never now without company, and the long days of travel gave her little time to collect herself, to organize her thoughts, to recover her composure or even to work up the courage to apologize for speaking more sharply than she’d intended—which was happening more often of late.
Mainly due to the company she was keeping.
It was a cruel blessing to be near Ean constantly, to want to be nearer to him still, and to loathe herself for the weakness of loving a man who would never love her back with the same dedication. Every day she abased herself for these failings, and every day she yearned for a day when Ean might look at her with as much desire as she felt for him.
It would be a kinder fate to hate him than to love him so!
She’d tried pushing Ean away with sharp words and ire, but these were simple obstacles to him, a splay of child’s jacks upon the floor. He walked over them with bare feet and barely flinched. It was testimony to his good-nature that he forgave her time and again, so that all of her efforts came to naught, ending not in estrangement but with growing admiration for him. Ean had been teasing her in the room that night, but his words rang with bitter truth; no matter what she did to avoid him or drive him away, unknown forces kept pitching them back together.
Perhaps I am fated to love him.
But she just couldn’t accept that—she wouldn’t accept it.
Exhaling a long sigh as much in longing as in regret, Alyneri did up the laces of her dress. For daily wear, she commissioned dresses that she could put on herself, without the need for a lady’s maid. Desert gowns like Ysolde Remalkhen wore were designed with such elegance and could be donned alone, but Alyneri wasn’t brave enough to wear the form-hugging silk, though it was certainly her birthright. Still, she thought the fitted blue dress she chose was lovely, if not so elaborate in design as most ladies of the court would wear. Appropriate for a pilgrimage, she told herself, but the claim seemed somehow inadequate.
She saved her hair for last, pulling heavy strands of her long, pale locks over her shoulder as she worked her fingers through the tangles. Sometimes—like that evening—when her reserves were low, she found herself thinking of Ean with longing instead of angst, wondering what it might be like to share herself with him. She’d seen his bare form; she’d seen his pattern as well, an intimacy that appended her to him in ways she hadn’t quite been prepared for. She imagined he would be a tender lover, which was right and gentlemanly, yet some part of her yearned equally for a passionate encounter that left them both bruised.
She was flushed by the time she finished her braid, tying it off with a leather cord. She expertly twisted the plait into an elaborate knot on the back of her head and secured it with a hairpin capped with a tourmaline scarab, an early gift from her father which she treasured.
Alyneri was walking back to the inn beneath a covered passage when she heard someone call out, “Your Grace, a moment?”
She paused and turned, looking for the source of the voice.
The innkeeper came trotting across the yard. He reminded her of a droopy-jowled hound, with his long cheeks and baggy brown eyes. “Your Grace, I’m so sorry to bother you.” He smiled unctuously as he came to a halt in front of her. “Your reputation precedes you—such an esteemed Healer as yourself, and so gracious. I’ve heard that you’ve been willing in the past to see certain persons in grave need, and one such has come to our humble inn tonight, a young girl and her mother. Would you be willing to see the child?”
It was tru
e, Alyneri had difficulty turning away those in need. She gave him more of her attention. “From what does the child suffer?”
“The mother preferred to speak with you directly, my lady, but the child looks terribly frail. I’m not certain how long she has—”
“Fine, fine.” Alyneri waved him silent, wishing the sycophantic man might excuse himself elsewhere, or at least do her the courtesy of falling down a well.
She followed the innkeeper along a different path around the back of the inn, through a servant’s entrance, and down a hallway lined in dark wood. “They’re just waiting in my office,” the innkeeper explained with an oily smile when she seemed reluctant to follow. “Just inside here,” and he opened a thick paneled door for her.
She moved past him and came to a sudden halt. It wasn’t a woman and her daughter that waited inside. Wary now, she turned to the innkeeper, who was closing the door, and demanded under her breath, “What’s the meaning of this?”
“A private audience, Your Grace,” said Lord Brantley, Earl of Pent. “You see, I’m afraid I must insist that you accept the duke’s hospitality tonight. His Grace’s guests are quite interested to make your acquaintance. Yours…and that of your ward.”
“Tanis?” she asked in confusion.
Lord Brantley smiled, and Alyneri did not at all like what lay behind that smile. “Indeed.”
She kept her composure admirably, managing a strained smile in return. “Very well…since you insist. I will just rouse my guards—”
“Regrettably, Your Grace,” the earl interrupted, still looking upon her with that self-satisfied smile, “your men are not invited.”
“I see.” She cast the unscrupulous man a steely gaze. “And just what do you hope to gain from this, Lord Brantley? You cannot think to get away with taking me hostage.”
“But on the contrary, Your Grace, I’ve done nothing of the sort. Our illustrious innkeeper has arranged everything, complete with witnesses that saw you leaving with a man who could only be your betrothed.”
“My betrothed?” she said flatly.
He smiled again. “So, you see, it’s all taken care of.” He nodded to the innkeeper, who opened the door to admit a host of soldiers in the livery of House val Torlen. The earl held a hand to Alyneri. “After you, my lady.”
She turned stiffly and went with the soldiers, knowing protest was futile. How different it felt, this kidnapping, compared to Ianthe’s attempt, what already seemed so long ago. Alyneri had no doubt that Ean and the men would find her; and Lord Brantley’s contrived story only reassured her that he had no idea of Ean’s presence among her company, which warmed her heart considerably. Moreover, she couldn’t imagine Duke val Torlen standing for it. When she told him of the manner in which Lord Brantley had taken her in hand, she felt sure he would impart a furious justice.
Even when she saw a worried Tanis already mounted up in the stables and surrounded by more soldiers, her resolve didn’t fail her. She held her back straight and accepted her reins politely but with stiff disapproval, and she stoutly refused to look at the deceitful Lord Brantley, even as he led them away.
***
Rhys val Kinkaid, Captain of the King’s Own Guard, reined in his horse just outside the stables of the Feathered Pheasant and dismounted purposefully. He spied one of the stable boys slouching on a stool near the doors and barked at him, “You there! Fetch your master!”
The boy startled awake so frightfully that he tipped backwards on his stool, waving his arms wildly as he grabbed for the near wall. He shot the captain a sullen glare as he recovered.
The captain was unmoved. “Now, boy! Or do you need the flat of my blade for encouragement?”
Looking sullen, the lad got up and slunk past him hugging the doorway. He broke into a haphazard lope as he made for the inn.
“Do you think the innkeeper was complicit in the deception, Lord Captain?” the soldier Cayal asked as he dismounted. He took his horse’s reins in hand and untied the lead rope from his saddle, bringing around their new pack mount alongside his own.
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Rhys grumbled, “but we’ll leave it up to the Governor to decide.”
They led the horses into the stables, and Rhys at once noticed the empty stall where last Her Grace’s horse had been quartered. He turned to Cayal and growled in warning, “The duchess’s horse is missing. Check for the rest.”
Cayal looped his leads around a near hook and rushed off to inspect the lines of stalls. Just then Rhys heard footsteps approaching, and he spun and drew his sword in one fluid motion—for such a large and imposing man, he moved with quick surety and grace, not a muscle wasted as he leveled his blade at the doorway.
The second stable boy nearly walked right into it, rounding the corner and halting only just in time. His brown eyes crossed as he looked down his nose at the captain’s deadly steel. “M-my lord?” he inquired meekly.
Rhys lowered his blade and then motioned with it. “Over there, you.”
The lad bolted for the corner where his counterpart had been sleeping and stood there wide-eyed. A moment later the proprietor arrived with the other boy in close tow.
“My Lord Captain, is there some problem?” the man asked with a toadying smile.
Rhys had planned to question the innkeeper on the fiasco at the farrier—the horse master had never even heard of Lord Brantley!—but now the absence of Her Grace’s horse was of more pressing concern. He leveled his blade at the innkeeper and motioned him and his boy inside with it, asking as he did, “Why is the Duchess of Aracine’s mare missing?”
The proprietor eyed the steel warily as he shuffled past it into the stables. He held up both hands. “Now, now, my Lord Captain, is there really need for such hostility?”
“Answer my question, man,” Rhys warned, holding the heavy weapon level at the innkeeper’s thick neck.
He managed a weedy smile. “Very well. Very well. No harm. I’ll tell you what I know. It’s bound to be out soon enough.”
Cayal came running up. “The boy’s mount is missing also, Lord Captain.”
Rhys’ gaze darkened, and he leveled a dangerous glare at the innkeeper. “Where is the Duchess of Aracine?”
“Why, she’s gone, my lord,” the man replied, his mouth twitching with a pained expression, as if the nearness of Rhys’ weapon was giving him intestinal gas.
“Gone,” Rhys repeated.
“With the prince,” the man said quickly.
Rhys still couldn’t process what he was saying. “The Prince of Dannym,” he repeated.
“Well it must’ve been him, my lord,” said the innkeeper, affecting a tone of mystery and awe. “You’ve heard the rumors, no doubt. It seems for once they must’ve been true. I saw him myself!”
Rhys exchanged a look with Cayal. “You saw the Prince of Dannym,” Rhys repeated, turning back to the innkeeper with a skeptical look. “Here?”
“Indeed,” the man declared importantly.
“And?”
“And…and he swore to the duchess that he could wait for her hand in marriage no longer! They left together.” Carefully eyeing the captain’s weapon, the innkeeper leaned closer and whispered, “I think they mean to elope.”
Cayal asked, “What makes you think this man you saw was the Prince of Dannym? He’s to be in mourning for his blood-brother for yet another week.”
The innkeeper rubbed his balding head. “Well, I cannot be certain, ’tis true,” he admitted, “for he never declared himself within my hearing, but Raine’s truth, he was the spitting image of His Majesty, and there was no mistaking the stallion he rode.”
At this news, Rhys spun an inquiring look at Cayal, who shook his head almost imperceptibly. His answer was clear: Caldar is still here.
Rhys’ gaze narrowed as he looked back to the innkeeper. He advanced on him threateningly. “Let me get this clear,” he drawled. Cayal drew his sword and fell in beside his captain, both of them driving the startled innkeeper further down
the line of stalls. “You saw, with your own eyes, the Prince of Dannym riding away from this very stable on his horse Caldar, and the Lady Alyneri d’Giverny went riding off with him.”
The innkeeper backed away as Rhys and Cayal advanced on him. “Yes—yes!” His baggy eyes flitted from one steely blade to the other. “Please, my Lord Captain! You wouldn’t slay me for bespeaking what is only Raine’s truth, no matter how untimely it may seem…would you?”
Rhys was fuming, so Cayal asked the obvious next question. “And what of the lad, Tanis? Why is his mount missing?”
The innkeeper’s eyes darted between them. “He—why he went with them, my lords.”
“To elope?” Cayal remarked skeptically.
The innkeeper swallowed. “Well now…now I don’t know they mean to elope. I was only guessing at the prince’s intentions. I mean he—he certainly didn’t share them with me.”
Rhys angled his blade and drove the innkeeper up against a stall. Inside, Caldar jerked his ash-darkened mane and nickered. Rhys glared darkly at the man in front of him. Clearly most everything he said was a lie, but two facts were certain: the duchess and her boy were gone. His Highness never would’ve let that happen willingly, nor would have Bastian and Dorin. So what had actually happened while they were away?
And where was the prince?
***
Ean felt around in the darkness until he found his sword. Then he used the same technique to find a rounded chest to sit upon. Gaining this, he rested elbows on knees and gazed into the black abyss. As his heart slowed and his breathing returned to normal, he felt strangely focused. Raine’s truth, there was no clarity as acute as that which followed a battle. Ean thought he could understand why some men relished a fight—one never felt so alive as after successfully dodging death; while Ean didn’t crave combat as some did, he was getting better used to its after-effects.
As his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, he eventually began to make out dim shapes. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought there must be light somehow leaking into the room. As he stared at the wall, he began to see…something…
Cephrael's Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One Page 58
