Donnel's Promise

by Mackenzie, Anna

  ‘Only for those with a pass.’ He moved away as the queue shuffled forward.

  Risha rejoined the line at the rear. When they reached the guards she spoke politely. ‘I’d like to see the castilian.’

  ‘Pass?’

  ‘I’m new in the city. I haven’t a pass. But the castilian will provide one.’

  The man looked at her properly. ‘I’ve seen you already. Curd, you had this one before?’

  The guardsman who had already turned her away glanced over. ‘Hour ago. Some people don’t know when to give up.’

  ‘Scat. And if I see you again today, I might lose patience.’

  Risha glared at the man’s implacable face. ‘But if you won’t let me see the castilian, how can he issue me a pass?’

  The younger guardsman swaggered over. ‘You’ve bin told. You ain’t getting in. Now why don’t you bugger off?’

  ‘After I see your commander.’

  ‘Oh, our commander. And he’ll appreciate being called down here for the likes of you?’

  She pictured Muir’s face. ‘Very much, as it happens. Why not put it to the test?’

  ‘Do I look stupid to you?’

  Risha elected not to reply. Fenn’s fingers closed on her arm. ‘Leave it. We’ll find another way.’

  The man leant so close she could smell his breath, which was none too sweet. ‘Tell you what: you got favours to offer, I might put in a good word.’

  ‘Is there a problem here?’

  The guardsman stepped hastily backward. ‘No problem, Sergeant. Just a couple of doxies too thick to hear what they’re being told plain and simple.’

  Risha’s brows lifted at the term ‘doxy’ but she kept her tone mild. ‘Good morning, Sergeant. I wonder if you might pass a message to the commander of the guard, to say that Lyse is here to see him.’

  ‘I already told you—’

  The newcomer raised a hand and the man’s words abruptly cut off.

  ‘We don’t run errands.’ The sergeant spread his legs, thumbs hooked in the sword belt that stretched around his jutting belly. He was florid-faced, bull-necked and looked no more tractable than his guardsmen. ‘Have you got a pass?’

  ‘No, but if we could speak to—’

  ‘No pass, no entry.’

  ‘Come away,’ Fenn muttered.

  Settling his broad backside against the wall the sergeant picked his teeth with a fingernail, inspecting in some detail the debris he dislodged.

  Risha glanced at the sky. They had wasted enough time. She moved sideways so that she could see past the guards and through the cobbled barbican.

  The sergeant wiped his hand on his jerkin. ‘You still here?’

  ‘We have a message for your commander,’ Risha repeated.

  The man spat a gob of phlegm onto the stones. ‘Like I said, we don’t deliver messages.’ He drew out each word as if he thought her deaf or stupid.

  ‘I suggest you make an exception. If you don’t, you’ll regret it.’

  The man pushed off the wall. ‘Now, that sounded like a threat.’

  ‘A poor word choice rather than a threat,’ Fenn said, taking a firm grip on Risha’s arm. ‘We’ll leave you in peace.’

  ‘Not so fast.’

  At his tone the surrounding crowd shuffled back.

  ‘Making threats against the guard: now that’s an offence that can get you locked up.’

  The younger guardsman leered. ‘And we could do with a bit of sport after-hours.’

  Croft was suddenly at her side. ‘Lay one finger on her and you’ll find your balls tied in knots around your neck,’ he said pleasantly.

  The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. At his barked command two more guardsmen appeared from the gatehouse.

  A hand closed on Risha’s shoulder. It was Nolan. ‘Disappear. Fast.’

  He swung her behind him. Fenn caught her as she stumbled and towed her into the crowd. It seemed to melt away around them. Glancing back to find Croft, Risha caught a flash of movement through the barbican. More guardsmen or — her heart lurched. ‘Muir!’

  Shucking off Fenn’s hand she darted forward. She was within the shadow of the barbican when a heavy arm clamped her torso, her breath catching in a hitch as a hand tightened on her breast. ‘Tasty.’

  She kicked backward. The arm that held her loosened and Risha stumbled to her knees. Croft was near buried beneath a welter of guards. Someone shoved her from behind, sending her sprawling on the stones. A weight landed on her back, a broad hand smearing her cheek into the cobbles.

  ‘What in Sargath’s name is going on here?’

  ‘Nothing we can’t handle, sir. You needn’t trouble yourself.’

  With an effort Risha got her teeth into the soft side of her captor’s hand. He pulled it away with a yelp, his weight on her back shifting. Risha twisted her head to look up.

  ‘I know you,’ Muir said, looking at Fenn.

  He was no more than a few feet away. Risha’s words dried in her throat. The last time she’d seen him had been after Westlaw’s siege of LeMarc’s citadel. He’d aged since; he looked worn and thin. A scar, puckered and new, ran across his right cheek.

  ‘Aye, you do.’ Fenn’s voice. ‘Our interests are more in accord now than then, though broadly speaking they were always aligned.’

  The soldier holding Fenn’s arms released her as if stung. She rolled her shoulders and tugged her tunic straight.

  There was a general shifting in the men around them. Nolan pulled free of the guardsmen who held him and stepped into Muir’s line of vision. Risha saw his recognition register.

  ‘Captain Nolan.’ Muir paused. ‘You’re keeping interesting company.’

  ‘More so than you might expect,’ Risha said. Her voice came out rusty. The weight on her back abruptly disappeared and she sat up, pushing a hand through her dishevelled hair; it wasn’t how she’d thought to meet him.

  There was a hiatus of stillness, then Muir strode forward and lifted her to her feet. He looked as though he couldn’t quite believe what his eyes told him. She offered a shaky smile. His mouth opened; she interrupted his words before they could form.

  ‘Hello, Muir.’ Her breath was suddenly tight in her chest. ‘Did you get my message? I asked them to tell you Lyse was here to see you.’ She willed him to understand.

  His eyes searched her face. ‘You always did have a tendency to surprise.’

  A throat was cleared — Nolan’s. Muir’s hands fell from Risha’s arms, leaving her feeling unbalanced though she was stood firmly on her feet.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ Muir asked.

  ‘Bruised.’ She glanced at the guardsman who’d thrown her — and groped her breast: the memory made her eyes narrow. ‘I believe I’ll recover.’

  Muir’s eyes followed hers. The guardsman stared stoically ahead, the muscles of his throat bobbing spasmodically. ‘Noted,’ Muir said softly.

  She frowned. What had happened to him, to add that tone to his repertoire?

  ‘Sergeant.’

  ‘Sir.’ The man’s discomfort was clear in the single short syllable.

  ‘Am I to understand there was a message?’

  ‘I was endeavouring to ascertain whether you should be disturbed, sir. In our defence, sir, the applicants resorted to threats, sir.’

  ‘That must have been alarming for a troop of Fratton’s finest: a couple of women making threats.’ His eyes scoured the group of guardsmen. ‘In future, Sergeant, messages will be promptly delivered. I, and I alone, will determine their relevance.’

  ‘Yessir.’ The man stared directly ahead, a flush darkening his face.

  ‘We’ll speak of this again, Sergeant.’ That tone again. ‘Dismissed.’

  ‘Sir.’

  The guardsmen dispersed as rapidly as they could without further loss of dignity.

  ‘Lyse,’ Muir said, his voice soft as a caress, even saying a name not hers. A memory of the winter they’d shared in the stillness of Lacstone Marsh rushed into her mind.

&nb
sp; ‘It’s good to see you, Muir.’

  His expression was impossible to decipher. ‘You have me at a disadvantage. And there are better places than this to talk. Though not many,’ he added.

  Risha made the introductions. ‘Nolan and Fenn you know, and this is Croft, of the Havrean guard. Commander Muir.’ The title felt odd in her mouth.

  ‘First impressions notwithstanding, I bid you all welcome. We have much to talk about.’

  ‘We do,’ Nolan agreed.

  ‘The Lady Margetta, and others, will be more than delighted to see you.’

  ‘And I them,’ Risha answered.

  Muir led them through the barbican into an irregularly shaped courtyard. Glancing around the wide space Risha recalled Barc describing the gallows Somoran had set here. There was no sign of it now. Instead, carpenters and stonemasons were at work.

  ‘The castle suffered superficial damage in the recent disturbances,’ Muir said.

  ‘We heard it was an uprising.’

  ‘Nothing so serious.’

  She wasn’t sure she believed him. He met her dubious gaze and shrugged. ‘A madcap scheme hatched by a handful of disgruntled courtiers — remnants of Somoran’s court.’

  ‘Acting alone or with outside assistance? From the west, perhaps.’

  His eyes roved the courtyard as he answered. ‘Such conversations are better had in private.’

  She looked around. There seemed no one near enough to overhear them.

  Muir smiled tightly. ‘The first rule of Fratton is “Trust no one”. It is not an easy lesson but, once learnt, I suspect it will prove hard to forget.’

  With his jaw clamped and the skin around his eyes taut with strain, he looked older than she knew him to be.

  Turning from her scrutiny Muir led them up steep stone steps to a door embellished with curling ironwork. The hall within was boldly decorated in Fratton’s green and blue, the broad beams of its high ceiling intricately carved. Muir led them aside to a circular stone stair. At its head a small antechamber gave onto a long gallery that looked out over the lake.

  Risha paused at an arched window. Ranks of conifers blanketed the serried hills and headlands.

  ‘The gallery faces south,’ Muir said. ‘On a fine day you can see clear to the southern tip of the lake.’

  The watercraft plying the sun-splashed water were dwarfed by the mountains that rose in sharp-toothed ridges above.

  ‘Standing here you’d never know the city exists. It feels shut off from the world.’

  Muir said nothing.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she added.

  ‘In summer. I wouldn’t recommend it in winter.’

  She had lived with northern cold for fourteen years, and nodded.

  Muir led them on through a series of corridors and antechambers before pausing at the foot of a short stair.

  ‘The place is a warren,’ Fenn said.

  ‘FrattonSeat was built over several centuries, with each addition designed to add complexities and spyholes as much as grandeur,’ Muir answered.

  Risha studied him. ‘Being here has made you bitter.’

  ‘Realistic.’ His face in the dull light of the stone passageway looked harsh and unforgiving. He turned to include the others. ‘These are Margetta’s private rooms — as secure from prying eyes and ears as we have been able to make them. We can talk safely within.’

  ‘Will you warn her first?’ Risha remembered how fragile the girl had seemed, like a baby sparrow fallen too early from its nest.

  He nodded. At the head of the stair two guards stood to attention, stepping aside from the door at a gesture from Muir. Nerves began to skitter in Risha’s belly.

  ‘Wait.’

  Muir turned.

  ‘Will my father be here, too?’ In the three years since they had met she had spent barely three months in his company. Perhaps this time—

  Muir’s answer put an abrupt end to the run of her thoughts. ‘Donnel left Fratton five days ago.’

  ‘Left? Why? Has he returned to LeMarc or—’

  ‘Inside.’ He tapped on the door. A panel slid open and shut then a key scraped in a lock.

  Risha didn’t recognise the man who stood aside to let them pass, nor two of the three who sat around a table within. The third she did.

  ‘Risha!’ Emett’s chair toppled backwards as he sprang up. ‘How in Tor’s bitter breath are you here?’

  A bubble of laughter escaped her — she’d not heard the saying since leaving the mountains. ‘It’s good to see you,’ she said, catching hold of his hands and staring up at his face. ‘But do you never plan to stop growing?’

  He lifted her suddenly and spun her around, the familiar fall of his hair, the tilt of his mouth transporting her back to the childhood they’d shared. When he set her down she felt dizzy. Muir’s voice, issuing commands, brought her back to herself. The room, which had felt crowded when they entered, now held only the people she knew: Fenn, Nolan and Croft standing stiffly by the door, Muir leaning against a table, his face expressionless as he studied her.

  She stepped out of the circle of Emett’s arms.

  ‘How did you manage to escape Goltoy?’ Emett asked, casting a speculative glance at Nolan and Croft.

  Risha’s delight at seeing him faded. ‘Gorth hasn’t reached you?’

  ‘Gorth? No.’

  ‘We sent him ahead with a message for Donnel; he should have been here days ago.’ Her teeth caught her lip as she considered the ills that might have befallen the man.

  ‘But how did you—’

  ‘Risha! You’re here!’

  The young woman who stood in the chamber’s inner doorway bore only a passing resemblance to the timid child they had rescued. Petite still, she had acquired curves that announced her childhood had passed, while her fair hair was caught up in a complicated braid that wrapped around her head like a crown.

  ‘Hello, Margetta. You’ve grown up.’

  The girl’s lips — the upper a perfect bow, the lower vulnerably full — curved as she held out her hands. Risha took them. There was still something waif-like about her; a lingering uncertainty in the elfin face and bright eyes.

  ‘It’s been so long! Is Lord Donnel with you? We’d not thought to see him back so soon.’

  ‘In truth I hoped to find my father here.’

  The delicate brows drew in. ‘But … Did he not rescue you? We thought the plan flawed, but he would not be swayed. Surely he—’

  ‘There was no rescue.’ Risha ran a hand through her hair, not improving its appearance.

  Muir spoke. ‘Arishara, Donnel left with the intention of securing your freedom. He rides to meet Goltoy.’

  ‘No!’ Darkness welled around her, Ciaran’s voice calling through it: You must warn Donnel. Someone screamed, the voice rising through the sound of battle. Flags snapped and strained against a skyline she knew, yet didn’t know. She cried out, her voice muffled by darkness. Streaks of red flickered through it, swelling and pooling around her in a liquid prison of blood and torn flesh.

  ‘—not the first time.’

  ‘Risha, open your eyes.’

  Her mouth felt dry. She licked her lips. Her limbs were strangely immobile without being heavy. She felt as though she did not quite belong in her body.

  ‘Here.’

  Something damp touched her face. A bead of liquid dribbled down her temple and into her hair. It was almost as if she saw rather than felt it.

  ‘She’s rousing.’

  ‘Risha, wake up.’ The voice was soft and insistent.

  She knew it. ‘Muir?’

  ‘Aye.’

  She opened her eyes. Muir’s face was directly above her own, his hand cradling her head. She was lying down, lying in his arms. She smiled. His breath rushed out; she felt the warmth of it on her cheek.

  ‘You’re all right?’

  She hadn’t felt so at ease in years.

  ‘What happened?’

  She didn’t want to leave the bubble o
f calm she lay in. ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Sit up, Arishara.’ Fenn held out a cup. ‘Drink.’

  Muir lifted her a little and she reached for the proffered drink, her hand trembling as she grasped it. His fingers closed over hers, guiding the cup to her lips. She drank, the water running down inside her as if it were a stream trickling through sand. Perhaps she’d knocked her head. ‘Did I fall?’ It made no sense.

  ‘You fainted. Or something similar,’ Muir answered.

  ‘What did you see?’

  She blinked at Nolan’s question. ‘I—’ Red. She’d seen blood, and heard Ciaran’s voice. The world rushed back into the stillness. She flinched and Muir’s arm tightened around her shoulders. ‘Where is Donnel? Can we reach him? It’s important, Muir.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. You’ll need to start at the beginning.’

  She struggled up, out of his embrace. She had been lying on a couch. As she swung her legs to the floor the world swayed.

  ‘Slowly,’ Fenn warned.

  ‘What is this?’ Muir asked.

  Fenn studied Risha’s eyes. ‘Give her time. She’ll be fine.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked.’

  Nolan answered. ‘She’s been ill, but this is something other. It’s not the first time it’s happened.’

  ‘Breathe, Risha.’ Fenn’s voice was calm and soothing. ‘You’re in FrattonSeat; we’ve just arrived.’

  She felt oddly bereft. ‘I’m all right, Muir, truly.’ She took a breath and studied the images that surged through her as though carried in her blood. Blood. ‘But we have to warn Donnel.’

  ‘Of what, exactly?’

  ‘A trap. Goltoy’s trap.’

  ‘It’s too late,’ Emett said.

  Bleakness filled her. Someone took her hand. She stared at the tanned fingers holding her own.

  ‘Donnel has gone to Elion,’ Muir said. ‘To your wedding.’

  She looked up, her cheeks colouring at the memory of lying so sleepily content in his arms. ‘Not mine,’ she said. ‘Lyse’s.’

  Debts

  Once the story had begun to flow it unravelled like a rope fraying into its separate strands.

  ‘It was brave of Lyse to agree,’ Emett said. ‘Do you suppose she realised the risk?’