“And his medallion?”
“That, cousin, hasn’t been seen in public for two hundred years.”
Lyssanne inched as near the pillar as discretion allowed.
“It bears the crest of Navvar under the rule of the Royal House of Xavier,” Lord Duncan said. “The final reigning king in the Xavier line was last to wear the medallion and chain…without the Avery links, of course. Legend has it, when he was deposed, the chain shattered at his feet. In her haste to flee, his queen gathered up the shards then passed them down to her heirs. Brennus had it re-forged a few years back, the Avery links replacing those lost.”
“This is the first time he’s worn it?” asked Sir Fenard. “Dangerous thing to do, is it not?”
“Well, nobody here is bound to inform the Blackthorne Brotherhood of it.” Lord Duncan laughed. “If there were Blackthorne agents hereabouts, I daresay he’d make certain they saw it.”
“He does mean to reclaim the throne, then?” asked a third man.
Lyssanne turned in her chair. The captain of the Avery forces stood just beyond the pillar.
Lord Duncan emerged and clapped him on the shoulder. “Not tonight, Captain Gunther. Not tonight.” Laughing, he strode off to claim a dance with his wife.
Lyssanne rose and sought out a fresh cup of iced berry punch to sooth her dry throat. She skirted a group of ladies near a sideboard laden with tankards of chilled juices.
“He is handsome, certainly,” Countess Fynnette’s high voice twittered.
“Yes, all that dark hair and serious countenance,” said a smoky-voiced woman.
“But dangerous, or so I’ve heard,” a lady in pale rose silk whispered.
“Think you?”
“Lady Lyssanne travels with him,” Countess Fynnette said. “She’d know if ’tis true.”
Male laughter drifted to them from a few paces away. Prince Brennus stood with several other gentlemen, his head thrown back in mirth.
“Lyssanne, what say you?” Countess Fynnette asked. “Is Prince Brennus dangerous?”
“Yes,” she whispered, his deep laugh echoing in her ears. “Yes, I daresay he is.”
An hour later, Lyssanne sat enjoying the spectacle of nobles flitting about like butterflies bobbing upon the wind, when a splash of orange detached itself from the rest. Sir Fenard strode across the room toward her as if marching to a quest. Intending to seek another dance? In the midst of a bare expanse of floor, he stopped short and, with an abrupt turn, changed course.
Cloth rustled behind Lyssanne. She glanced over her shoulder. Prince Brennus stood within arm’s reach of her chair, staring in the direction Sir Fenard had gone.
For the rest of the evening, wherever Lyssanne went, the prince stood nearby. The music continued long into the night, but Lord Duncan’s cousin didn’t ask her to dance again.
17
Refraction
Just after sunset the following evening, Brennus was still shaking the thoughts of the raven from his mind, when Duncan burst into his chamber. Brennus greeted his friend with a grin, determined to relish every extended moment autumn’s lengthening nights afforded him in his true form. Ah, how a man could come to long for the dark of winter.
The request Duncan conveyed from MeMe, however, set his teeth on edge. Conduct Lyssanne on a tour of the castle’s upper reaches? Him?
“She says Lyssanne’s been quiet all day,” Duncan said. “You know how fussy MeMe is about pleasing guests. She thinks a tour will cheer and occupy Lyssanne, especially since my cousins just departed.”
None too soon for Brennus’s liking, but he held his tongue.
Duncan turned to face him, his eyes flat as gravestones. “Truth is, Noel’s taken a bad turn. MeMe and I wish to sit with her this evening after the healer's done, but MeMe won’t rest—and neither shall I—if she thinks something’s amiss with a guest.”
Brennus grimaced at the thought of playing nursemaid to Lyssanne’s moods. Still, this would afford him the chance to learn of her plans. He’d welcome any information that might offset Venefica’s fury over Lyssanne’s latest discoveries.
He followed Duncan to meet the ladies outside the little white shrine in the inner bailey. MeMe bade Lyssanne farewell then tugged Duncan into the shrine.
“What would you most like to see?” Brennus asked, turning toward the manor.
“I do not wish to impose,” Lyssanne said, lowering her shawl from her hair. “I’m certain you have more entertaining things to do than conduct me about the manor.”
His gaze darted to her averted face. Perceptive, and not what he’d expected. “It is MeMe's wish,” he said at last, “that you enjoy the splendor of her home.”
They walked up the lush, sloping ground in strained silence.
“Have you seen the gardens?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, her eyes brightening. “Lady MeMe and I had tea there this afternoon.”
“The Library?”
She nodded. “Never have I beheld a place of such wonder.”
“Indeed. The view from its lofty windows is spectacular.”
“I confess,” she said, her gaze straying to the blue, conical roofs of the highest spires, “I had eyes only for what lay within.”
He couldn’t prevent smiling. “Then, there is another place of wonder I should show you.” He waved her before him as the guards held the doors ajar for their passage.
They crossed the foyer to the alcove sheltering the double doors of the great hall. Two plainer doors stood facing each other across that alcove. One led to the antechamber in which they’d awaited dinner the previous evening. The other, Brennus opened.
He took a torch from the rack just inside the doorway and lit it from the flame ensconced upon the wall. “Follow close,” he said. “The stair is sound but steep.”
They ascended a succession of winding stone steps unbroken by door or landing. When the stairs gave way to a smooth ramp, Lyssanne asked its purpose.
“At one time, this tower offered the castle’s best defensive position. The ramp prevented troops tripping as they ran to and from battle.” He paused to ensure her footing. “The towers haven’t been used in war for decades, with the outer walls all but impenetrable, but you can still see the arrow slits, carved through the stone this high above the manor’s wings.”
At length, the ramp opened into a crescent-shaped alcove and the balcony encircling it.
“Look down there,” he said, gesturing to the opening in the alcove.
As she moved to the parapet, he set the torch in a wall bracket, where its flame wouldn’t hamper their view. Her soft gasp drew him alongside her. A smile lit her face, her gaze fixed on the lights dotting the outer bailey.
“How beautiful! Like stars.” Her eyes drifted upward, as if to determine whether what she saw below was a reflection of the sky. Leaning forward, she asked in a small voice, “What are they, the lights?”
What were they? Any fool could see…He uncurled his fist. She could not see. To her, the flames below doubtless did look like tiny pinpricks of light. His chest tightened. She’d been embarrassed to ask and admit her ignorance to one who’d so often met it with scorn.
“They are torches,” he murmured, unwilling to break the spell the view had cast over her. “Sentry torches mostly, in brackets all along the outer and inner walls.”
“Oh,” she said, more breath than word. A little frown creased her brow. “But the lights do not all follow uniform rows. Some are clustered in the midst of the bailey.”
“Those are pole lights, torches stuck into the ground near artisans' stalls,” he said. “They brighten the area while the craftsmen pack up for the day.”
“And the larger ones?” she asked, her voice still awestruck.
“Bonfires.” He stepped behind her. “That one,” he said, reaching around her shoulder to indicate a fire just below, “is near the saddler's stall, where the leather merchants cook dinner.”
He rested his hands to either side of hers o
n the ledge, concealing her tiny body in the circle of his arms and the parapet. She stiffened, the chill of her skin seeping through his tunic. Thus, he remained where he stood, warming her as she relished this view she couldn’t truly see. In it, she beheld beauty he’d forgotten to notice. What else might she see that others could not?
The Shadow Mist. He took a swift step back then crossed to the alcove. He must not forget who she was or what his mission required. “Come, the wind is increasing.”
She obeyed, though she glanced back at the view. As he jerked the torch from its bracket, her fingertips brushed his arm. “Thank you,” she said. “I shall remember this, always.”
He nodded and strode toward the ramp.
“Is there a higher place still?” she asked.
He turned to find her gazing at the narrow stair that wound upward from the opposite side of the alcove. Hiding a smirk, he led her up to the castle's pinnacle; the prison chamber that once held highborn enemies of state and nobles who’d crossed the lords of Avery Hall.
“There is no view from here,” he said. “Only a slit for ventilation near the roof.”
He swung open the door, into which was cut a slot for the passing of food and a high, barred window. Torchlight flooded the small, round cell.
“You are fond of stories,” Brennus said, as they stepped into the room. “This chamber would have many to tell. In fact, it was once used to teach. Though, I doubt its student was pleased with the lesson.”
“What sort of lesson?”
“Long ago, a merchant fell victim to a band of highwaymen. Footsore and weary, he came upon the broken carriage of a Lyryan nobleman. The lord and his retainers had been slain, but the attackers had overlooked one trunk. Beneath a few fine garments, the merchant found the nobleman's signet ring. He donned the clothes and put the ring in his pocket, intending to sell it.”
Brennus paused, gesturing Lyssanne toward the flat ledge built into one wall. She eyed the stone chamber pot still resting beneath it, then perched at the opposite end of the bench.
“After a day’s journey,” Brennus said, “the merchant reached Avery Hall. By the crest on his borrowed mantle, the inhabitants mistook him for the dead baron. Seeing he would be feasted and treated with dignity, he put on the dead man's ring and kept up the pretense. However, Lord Avery’s son, a friend of the dead baron, whispered the truth to his father. Lord Avery led the merchant up here, saying only this highest chamber would befit a baron such as he.”
Lyssanne’s eyes widened, and she clasped her hands. Brennus forged on, relentless.
“To the merchant’s shock, he found himself surrounded, not by silken tapestries, but bare stone. Just before bolting the door, Lord Avery assured him that his was a penalty befitting any nobleman who acted in war against this holding. The man protested he’d not done so. Deception, said Lord Avery, was the greatest form of betrayal. The merchant remained here until he died.”
Lyssanne shot to her feet and glanced back at the ledge, perhaps picturing the merchant breathing his last upon it.
“The lords of Avery Hall do not take kindly to deception,” Brennus whispered.
Lyssanne stood silent in the center of the room. She pivoted, as if imagining confinement in this tiny space. He stepped from the room, bringing the torch with him and allowing the door to swing inward. Let her feel the darkness for a moment, the danger of the game she played.
Gasping, she spun around, then rushed from the chamber, stumbling over her hem in her haste. “Might we go back now?” she asked, breathless and pale as Reina’s mane.
“Certainly, my lady.” He turned, hiding a mocking smile.
Lyssanne flexed her cramped fingers then dipped her quill into the ornate inkwell resting between her and Lady MeMe on the little table in Lord Duncan’s study. By the time she detailed for Mr. DeLivre all that had happened since she’d left Cloistervale, she’d have enough material to fill one of his books.
“You’re certain your courier won't mind the journey?” she asked her hostess. “It is quite far and out of the way.”
Lady MeMe set another sealed missive atop the stack of letters and packages she intended to send to her family in Lastarra the next day. “He travels throughout the realm,” she said. “Besides, I shall see to it he doesn’t begrudge a few extra leagues.”
Lyssanne rubbed her eyes then folded Mr. DeLivre’s letter, together with a note for Aderyn, and addressed the lot. Smiling, she handed it to MeMe.
“I daresay you could do with another cup of this wondrous flyl,” Lady MeMe said.
Lyssanne’s lips twitched. “Not if I wish to sleep this night.”
“Indeed,” said Lord Duncan, raising his steaming cup to Lyssanne as if in salute. “Rather than dull the senses like wine or mead, it sharpens the wit and wakes the mind.” He glanced at his wife and Prince Brennus. “Henceforth, it is flyl I shall serve honored guests on special occasions. With so fine a brew, Avery Hall will be the envy of the land!”
“It has proven a boon to me these past nights beside Noel’s sickbed,” Lady MeMe said. “What gives it such stimulating properties? That twig-like spice our cook had never beheld?”
“Honcin, yes,” Lyssanne said. “I’m told it grows nowhere but the Cloister Valley.”
“It was most kind of you to instruct our cook in flyl's brewing, and more so to delay your departure out of concern for Noel. I only regret I must leave you so oft unattended. Fevers are common among children, but the healer says Noel’s is severe, and each dawn adds danger.”
“I pray she recovers quickly,” Lyssanne said. “Please do not concern yourself with me. Your home and grounds have afforded me a peace I’ve not known in months.”
That was, during the day, at least. In the cool of the mornings, Lyssanne found a divine serenity in strolling the lush ornamental gardens, with their musical fountains and white pathways. Afternoons, she spent visiting the blacksmith, wandering the meadow with Reina, or sitting with a book in the forest of knowledge that was the Avery library.
The inevitable fall of evening, however, brought her into company with Prince Brennus. They’d shared a tense cordiality at dinners in the hall or private dining room, after which they lounged with their hosts in Lord Duncan’s study. The tale he’d told in the prison chamber still haunted her thoughts, and shadows stalked her dreams.
Such thoughts dredged up memories of the fog that menaced Cloistervale. Did it still? Was the sorceress who’d murdered Lyssanne’s father yet plaguing the village, despite Lyssanne's departure? Or did the Shadow Mist’s presence there even have anything to do with the sorceress’s desire to see her dead?
At least her concern for Jarad seemed, for the moment, unnecessary.
Lord Duncan’s steward knocked and entered. “The boy Jarad to see His Highness, as requested.”
A lump of ice dropped into Lyssanne’s stomach as Jarad made his bows and the steward left the room. Why had the prince summoned him?
“Word has reached me from some of Duncan’s men,” said Prince Brennus, “that you won a game of throwing-knives against the stable lads.”
“I did,” Jarad said, his voice light enough to lift his feet from the floor. “You should’ve seen it! Uh, I mean…Yes, Your Highness, ’tis true.”
Chuckling, Prince Brennus rose and tousled Jarad’s hair. “I would indeed like to see that. Duncan has a target in this very room. Perhaps you would show me your skill?”
“That would be…Oh, but I don’t have a knife. I used Mr. Thane’s for the game.”
“Duncan, have you the key to my chest?” Prince Brennus asked.
He produced the key, and the prince pulled a plain, leather-covered chest from beneath a table. He withdrew from it a bundle half the length of his forearm.
“Try this.” He unwrapped the object and handed it to Jarad.
“A real fighting dagger!” Jarad said. “With a raven’s head pommel, just like your sword.”
“It belonged to my uncle,” Prince Brennus
said. “Let us see if that old knife can still fly.”
The men and Jarad took turns trying to skewer the eye of a round target, Prince Brennus occasionally advising Jarad on how to make best use of the weighty dagger.
Once they’d ceased their game, Lord Duncan said, “Impressive, young man.”
“Anyone with that much skill should have a dagger to call his own,” said the prince. “The one you hold is a good fit for your hand. Consider it yours.”
Lord Duncan swung to face Prince Brennus.
“But I couldn’t,” Jarad said, his gaze riveted to the dagger. “It’s too fine, and a family weapon, besides.”
“I have others,” the prince said. “I assure you, I’ll not miss it.”
Lyssanne stared at him. He favored Jarad, he’d made that plain. Still, such a gift was never offered lightly.
“You’ll need daily practice to accustom yourself to the balance of the blade,” Prince Brennus said. “I am certain, though, it will prove useful. As I’ve said, you can’t always rely on your bow to safeguard yourself or your companions.”
“Why is it, a boy of your skill has no dagger?” Lord Duncan asked. “Had you known Brennus longer, I might suspect his guidance in your handiwork. Who trained you, lad?”
“No one, milord,” Jarad said. “I never threw a knife like that until Mr. Thane and the boys asked me to join them.”
“Nonsense,” said Lord Duncan. “No one has that kind of aim without practice.”
“Begging your pardon, milord,” Jarad said, bowing. “It isn’t all that different from throwing rocks into honeymunk holes. I used to scare them out so Madam Colby could harvest their honey. You have to stand well away from their trees,” he said. “They come out mad, spittin’ stingspray. If that stuff gets you just right, you could lose an eye, or end up all scarred from burns like Wally Redman. So, you learn to hit ’em just right, from as far away as possible.”
Keeper of Shadows (Light-Wielder Chronicles Book 1) Page 27
