Artesans of Albia: 02 - King's Champion

by Cas Peace

  He passed a glass to Cal, who offered it to Rienne. Trying desperately to calm herself, Rienne accepted it, drinking it straight off in one swallow. She coughed as it burned her throat, and wiped her eyes with the back of one hand. Cal handed her a cloth with which she did a thorough job. Then she noisily blew her nose.

  Cal’s dark eyes scanned her face. “Better, love?”

  Rienne drew a shaky breath, looking from Cal to Taran, profound unhappiness clear in her soft, grey eyes. She shook her head. “I can’t stand this, it’s not right. How can we walk away from here and pretend everything’s normal? Our lives are never going to be the same again. I can’t just forget all this ever happened. How can I go back to my patients with their ordinary problems knowing I might have helped her, might have saved her?” Her voice broke. “Why did we leave her like that?”

  Her intensity alarmed Taran. Rienne was usually more levelheaded. Cal gathered her close, tried to soothe her. A questioning look passed between him and Taran. When they hadn’t been practicing their skills over the last few days, they had asked themselves the same thing.

  “I think Bull feels the same way you do, love,” said Cal. “In fact, we’re a bit surprised he hasn’t gone back to be with them. He’s been very unhappy since returning with the General.”

  Hope immediately bloomed in Rienne’s tear-filled eyes. “Is he considering going back, then? If he is, I want to know. We can’t let him go without us.”

  Cal frowned. “I know how you feel, love, but just think about what’s happening there. Do we really want to walk straight into a war? Because that’s what we’re talking about. Full-scale civil war. It would be very dangerous, and they wouldn’t want us interfering or getting in the way.”

  Unimpressed, Rienne sniffed. “But we wouldn’t be in the way. We’d keep to the sidelines and just be there if she needs us.” Seeing Cal’s expression she said, “At least go talk to Bull and see what he thinks. If he’s dead against it, we won’t go, but I for one need to know what’s happening. I can’t sit around here day after day waiting for bad news. It’s driving me mad.”

  When Taran asked Bull into the apartment a little later to broach the subject, he had the distinct impression that the big man had been thinking along very similar lines. He was unwilling to commit himself, though. “I don’t know, Taran. I’m in two minds. I’m not at all sure we’d be welcome.”

  “What do you mean?” said Rienne. “Why on earth wouldn’t we be welcome?”

  Bull sighed. “For a start, she as good as ordered me not to follow her. And she’s already made her farewells. Knowing her as I do, I don’t think she’d want to go through all that again. She’s a very private person, sometimes. I don’t think she’d appreciate us coming to watch her die.”

  Rienne sounded strained. “That’s not why we want to go! We want to help.”

  “I know, dear heart, I know. Let me think about it a little longer. I’ve not heard from Robin yet, although I can feel he’s alright. Let’s wait and see what the situation is before we go rushing into anything. It’ll be a tricky time for them, entering the Citadel. They don’t know what the Hierarch’s reaction will be, whether he’ll even see her. We have to wait for them to contact us, and then perhaps we can make a decision.”

  Rienne saw the sense of Bull’s words, even though they didn’t pacify her. Taran understood how she felt. It was hard not knowing what was happening.

  * * * * *

  Sullyan cantered Drum across the plains for the first mile or so, weaving through the trees, Robin and Marik at her back. Then she slowed the stallion to a brisk walk, allowing the other two to catch up. She made for the high road leading directly to the fortress gates, seeing with satisfaction that they were the only people on the road. Warning Marik and Robin to keep their hands well away from their sword hilts, she rode confidently forward, eyes narrowed against the snow glare.

  The Count nudged his horse up on her left side, a gloomy expression on his face. “I expect the sentries and outriders will see us soon.”

  She gave a snort. “My dear Count, there have been loaded crossbows aimed at our hearts for the past half hour.”

  Marik started and looked wildly about, but there was no one in sight.

  Sullyan continued in silence, highly visible on the coal-black Drum. Her borrowed longsword reared in its harness over her shoulder.

  They were about a mile and a half from the gates when the sentries rode out of cover and confronted them. Sullyan immediately halted in the middle of the road, waiting for the twenty-strong patrol to approach. Marik and Robin flanked her. She studied the Hierarch’s men with professional interest. The purple and gold of his livery was evident on their combat leathers, and their leader bore a Lieutenant’s rank insignia, the equivalent of an Albian Captain. A medium height man in his middle thirties, he halted his men a few paces from Sullyan and rode forward alone. He sat his dark bay stallion easily and his hand never left the hilt of his sword, despite the ready crossbows behind him.

  He ignored Robin, swept Marik a contemptuous glance, and then turned his attention to Sullyan. He regarded her for a few moments, his pale brown eyes taking in her gold insignia, her battle honors, and King’s Envoy shooting star. When he addressed her, his tone was barely respectful, the attitude of a confident man unused to dealing with armed women.

  “Major.” He gave her a slight nod, the only sign of respect she would get.

  “Lieutenant.” She accorded him the same bare courtesy, giving her voice an identical inflexion.

  His eyes narrowed as he reassessed her, taking in her relaxed but alert attitude and the casual way she sat the huge black stallion with its light saddle and bitless bridle. His own mount bore the usual heavy cavalry saddle that could keep a dying man upright, and foam was dripping from the iron bit in its mouth.

  He motioned for his men to put up their weapons. They obeyed instantly, a fact not lost on Sullyan. She approved of discipline, and this smooth obedience spoke of an able officer and good leadership. She didn’t take her eyes from the Lieutenant while she assessed his men, and she could see he didn’t like her forthright gaze. It made him nervous, and she guessed he was unused to being made nervous, especially by an armed woman.

  There was tension in his voice when he addressed her again. “What is your business here?”

  “My name is Major Sullyan, and I am an Ambassador of Elias Rovannon, High King of Albia. I am here to request an audience with the Hierarch at his earliest convenience.”

  The Lieutenant gave a bark of laughter. “Have you not heard we’re on the brink of war, Major? His Majesty will see no one at this time, and certainly not a human Ambassador. What on earth makes you think he would grant you an audience?” He shot a glare at Marik, who flinched. “Especially when you come in the company of traitors.”

  She stood her ground. “My business is with his Majesty, Lieutenant, although it is precisely because you find yourselves at war that I have come. As for Count Marik, he is under my protection and is no traitor to the Hierarch’s rule. I think you will find that the Hierarch will see me, if you will be good enough to escort us.”

  She urged Drum forward, pushing past the Lieutenant’s horse. Robin and Marik hastened to follow, the Captain keeping a nervous eye on the men of the patrol. In the absence of orders from their officer, though, they allowed the three strangers to ride through. Robin might have laughed at their confusion had he not been so wary.

  The Lieutenant recovered quickly and barked orders at his men. As they closed smoothly around the three, he pushed his mount close beside Drum. The big black laid back his ears at the unfamiliar stallion and sidestepped menacingly. Sullyan calmed him with a word and rode serenely on, ignoring the seething officer.

  As they neared the gates of the fortress, the Lieutenant once more nudged his horse across Drum’s path. Sullyan halted. The patrol ranged around her, whether protectively or defensively wasn’t clear. The sentries on the walls all had crossbows aimed at the part
y, and the guards stationed at the foot of the gates were likewise alert. With a hard stare of unmistakable meaning, the Lieutenant turned his back on Sullyan, rode forward, and called out to someone behind the gates. A small postern opened and he conferred with whoever was behind it. Sullyan heard her name mentioned and guessed he was sending for someone of higher rank to deal with the unwelcome visitors.

  All around the battlemented walls were the signs of preparations for war. Sentries patrolled every section and guard tower, and the crust of frozen snow on the ground outside was churned with the hoof marks and boot prints of many troop movements. Cart ruts also ran through the gates, and Sullyan guessed they were laying up provisions in the event of a siege. It made her heart clench. She stared impatiently at the Lieutenant, who was fretting before the gates.

  At length, the postern reopened and a single man emerged. He was tall, strongly built, and had pale grey eyes. His hair was black, lightly peppered with grey, and over his uniform he wore a heavy purple cloak edged with gold. A longsword rode at his left hip, and he walked with the confident air of command. On seeing him, the leader of the patrol immediately relaxed.

  As the newcomer approached Sullyan, she swung elegantly down from Drum, her heavy riding cloak swirling around her. She gestured for Robin and Marik to do likewise. The tall Andaryan halted before her and she accorded him a formal salute, giving him the level of courtesy she would have shown Mathias Blaine.

  “General.”

  He returned the homage while appraising her, although his salute wasn’t as respectful as hers. When he spoke, his tone conveyed wary interest.

  “Major Sullyan. I have heard of you.”

  She inclined her head, hearing Robin’s surprised intake of breath before the tall Andaryan went on.

  “I am General Ephan, overall commander of the Velletian Guard and responsible for the Hierarch’s security. We are currently under threat of war, as I’m sure you’re aware. The Citadel is closed to outsiders. However, in deference to King Elias of Albia, I will permit you and your Captain to enter and seek an audience with the Hierarch. But I warn you, he is a busy man and these are troubled times. He may not be inclined to see you.”

  “We will take that chance, General Ephan. I thank you for your courtesy.”

  The General’s pale eyes hardened and his voice became harsh. “I will not, however, admit traitors, no matter who speaks for them. The renegade Marik will be taken under arrest and held in confinement until such time as his Majesty decides his fate.”

  Marik gasped and stepped back, but he was too late. The patrol tightened around him, crossbows raised. He looked desperately at Sullyan, his eyes a little wild. She made a calming gesture and turned back to the General.

  “Count Marik is under my personal protection, General Ephan, and only accompanied me here at my insistence. I pledge you my word he is no traitor.”

  Ephan brushed her protest aside. “That is not for you to say. While his overlord threatens the Citadel, I cannot permit this man to go free in the Hierarch’s domain.” He nodded to the guards. “Take him.”

  Two of them grasped Marik’s arms. He struggled at first, but then thought better of it and subsided, his expression gloomy.

  Sullyan gave him a reassuring smile. “I am sorry for this, Ty. Rest assured, I will do my best to resolve the situation. The Hierarch will understand once I explain why you are here.”

  The General gave a grunt, and Marik hung his head as he was hustled away. Sullyan turned stiffly back to Ephan. “That was not well done, General. I do not extend my protection to traitors. The Count has much to offer his Majesty and has suffered greatly at Lord Rykan’s hands. He was coerced into supporting the Duke, as I suspect you already know. Be sure he is well treated while under your care.”

  Ephan chose not to respond. Instead, he turned to the leader of the patrol, who was awaiting release. “Get back to your duties, Lieutenant Barrin.”

  The man turned his horse and rode back through his men, leading them south along the road. Ephan strode to the postern gate and barked orders to the guardsmen behind. Grooms arrived to take the visitors’ horses, and Ephan indicated that Sullyan and Robin should follow him into the Citadel.

  Once through the postern, Sullyan looked round with interest. The walls on the inside were lined with guard posts and towers, and scaled by laddered platforms leading up to the battlements. The interior road running round the perimeter was teeming with swordsmen, all of whom bore the purple and gold livery of the Hierarch’s elite corps, the Velletian Guard. Buildings nearby were obviously barracks, supply depots, and armories. There was one clear road running up from the gates, between these buildings, and on into the center of the Citadel.

  Ephan spotted a servant wearing the livery of the Hierarch’s personal service and hailed him. “You, man. Take Major Sullyan here and Captain ...?” He raised a brow and Sullyan supplied Robin’s name. “Captain Tamsen to Baron Gaslek. Tell Gaslek the Major is an Ambassador from King Elias of Albia, and that she desires an audience with his Majesty.” The servant’s eyes widened, but he didn’t speak. “Have him assign them quarters while they wait.”

  Ephan turned back to Sullyan. “Major, you will excuse my not escorting you, but as you see, we are preparing for war. The Baron is his Majesty’s secretary. He will present your petition and see to your comforts. I wish you good fortune. If his Majesty is gracious and grants your request, maybe we will meet again.”

  He swept away. Sullyan watched him go, a small smile on her lips. Then she turned to the servant, who was hovering anxiously at her elbow. “Please, Lady,” he said, as he turned to lead them through the town.

  The servant guided Sullyan and Robin up the straight road leading through the center of the Citadel. They passed shops and houses, the dwellings and business places of the lower town. The Caer was thronging with people, all going about their daily lives despite the insecurity of their future.

  Sullyan studied the faces of the people they passed, most of whom didn’t pay the party any attention at all. A few of the men, mainly swordsmen, glanced their way. Without exception, they regarded Robin with professional interest and were openly startled when they realized Sullyan was armed. They stared at her with varying expressions. Chief among these was plain disbelief, but some were blatantly hostile.

  Occasionally, they passed groups of women, all escorted by either household servants or guards wearing the Hierarch’s colors. The servants’ liveries were trimmed in whatever color their noble had adopted, and the resulting clash of color made Sullyan feel sick.

  The highborn women, gaudily dressed in court fnery and with lavishly made up faces, were open in their condemnation and scorn for Sullyan’s attire. Their snide comments, outraged gasps, and sniggers behind fluttering fans made Sullyan’s hands itch to slap. Yet she moved serenely through them, never giving a sign that she heard their wounding remarks. Much as she could appear refined when she chose, as at Marik’s feast, she always felt more comfortable in her leathers. Such sentiments, she knew, would scandalize these chattering, painted parrots.

  The silent servant led them through the town toward a steeper rise in the land. They emerged onto the Processional Way, the state road leading to the ornately wrought gates of the Imperial Palace. Ornamental trees, bare of leaves yet still graceful, lined the avenue, and the gleaming white river cobbles underfoot had been swept clear of snow. The crowds were absent now. No one approached the Palace save servants and military officers.

  Their guide didn’t lead them through the huge main gates, but turned left before reaching them. Guards patrolling behind the gates watched the two Albians with cold and wary eyes. Following the pale stone wall surrounding the Palace gardens, the servant took them through a much smaller gate. The two sentries stationed there stared with unfriendly curiosity and whispered to each other as Sullyan passed. If the gaudy gossips in the town had not already spread it, she thought, news of their arrival would soon be common knowledge.

  The se
rvant now took them through a pleasant but winter-bare rose garden, toward a wing of the vast and sprawling Palace. Opening a pair of fancy, carved wooden doors set with glass, he ushered them inside. A young maid standing close by scurried forward to take their heavy cloaks. Her pale yellow eyes nearly started from her head when she saw Sullyan’s combat leathers. The Major smiled at her, but she didn’t respond.

  “Please, Lady,” said their guide, beckoning them on. They followed him through a succession of large, empty reception rooms, their ceilings heavy with gilded bosses, the door lintels ornately carved. The furniture was solid and impressive, yet none of it looked comfortable. Expensive woven carpets covered the floors and scented bowls of flowers stood in every room. Robin frowned as he smelled their heady perfume, and Sullyan guessed he was wondering where the Palace got such flowers in winter. He was still frowning as they arrived at a green baize door. The servant stopped and rapped sharply on the wood surround. At the response from within, he opened it and ushered them through.

  Chapter Twelve

  The room they entered was plainer than any they had yet seen. Clearly an office, it held only a fruitwood table with a matching chair, and several other chairs ranged around the walls. A large window overlooked an inner courtyard where a fountain of marble nymphs played over an icy pool. There was an overriding smell of beeswax, as if someone had recently polished the furniture.

  The man seated behind the desk rose to greet them. He was small, stout, and fussily dressed, and he sported a pair of thick spectacles which perched precariously on the end of his small nose. Peering shortsightedly at them, he came around the table to get a better view. He wore the purple and gold of the Hierarch’s personal staff, and his short, thick fingers were covered in rings. His robes had the appearance of hampering his movements, and his hands constantly twitched at his clothing.

  The servant bowed. “My Lord Baron, may I present Major Sullyan, Lady Ambassador and Envoy of King Elias of Albia. Also, her escort, Captain Tamsen. They seek an audience with his Majesty. General Ephan asks that you see to their comfort.” He turned abruptly and left the room as if well pleased to be rid of his duty.